


love is real, but i'm evil now

by dashielldeveron



Series: love is real: saeran's boogaloo [1]
Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Christianity, Cults, Depression, F/M, Guilt, Innocence, Loss of Virginity, Mental Illness, Mint Eye, Self-Harm, Smut, Suicidal Ideation, Theology, Threat of pregnancy, Unsafe Sex, chapter two: forced object insertion for cult ritual, christian!reader, depressed!reader, dub-con?, no blasphemy, suit saeran
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:54:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25454248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashielldeveron/pseuds/dashielldeveron
Summary: You have morals. Saeran has a boner.Well, one of you is going to have to change.Guilt smut. Not Catholic flavoured, unfortunately, though that is the spiciest of the religious guilt. It's protestant/depression flavoured, which, I guess, tastes like plain bread, and it's hot out of the oven.
Relationships: Choi Saeran & Main Character, Choi Saeran/Main Character, Choi Saeran/Reader
Series: love is real: saeran's boogaloo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2067777
Comments: 42
Kudos: 203





	1. sacrament

**Author's Note:**

> An explanation: this isn’t meant to offend anyone. If anything, it should offend me, because it’s the biggest, most embarrassing call-out post anyone could make. 
> 
> I see a fair amount of smut, and while yeah, it’s hot, I always feel lowkey guilty and wrong if the characters are having pre-marital sex—even though every sin is weighted equally in the eyes of God, so, like, lying about taking the last cookie is the same as murder. Seems fucky, I know, but that’s the grace of God. It’s all faith-based, and nothing we can do can make us worthy or any worse than we already are. 
> 
> It brings me a great deal of comfort.
> 
> Anyway. I’ve been thinking a lot about the Mint Eye cult, and I figure Saeran can understand devotion. Here’s my fucked-up smut.

“Let me _through!_ Idiot!”

You jolted upright from your spot on the floor, heart rate spiking at the sound of his voice.

“You heard the saviour; you know she said I’m the strongest believer there is. I pull rank over you. I’m _stronger_ than you. Any of you!” Through the door came a muted thud and a sharp bang, as if he’d slammed a believer against the door and knocked his head into it for good measure. “You can’t keep me from my toy. She isn’t _yours._ How fucking arrogant. Get out of the way; I don’t care what your damn orders are.” A slap. “You wanna go to the basement? You seem due for another cleansing, anyway. What’s your number, you fat _fuck_?”

Okay, deep breath. Everything’s fine. Everything’s going to be fine. Joints creaking, you pushed on your knees to stand, and you rolled your shoulders back before holding an arm across your chest to stretch it. If things got physical, pulling another tendon wouldn’t be ideal.

“Forget it. You’re not even worth wasting elixir on, you insolent fucking weed. You can just _choke_.”

You had moved on to your other arm by the time he barged through the double doors, shaking dust from the walls—you caught a glimpse of the collapsed guard before Saeran forcing them shut, resting his palms on the wood while he seethed.

He jerked his head in your direction. “What are you doing _now_?”

“I’m stiff from being in the same room all day.” You dropped your arms. “You _could_ let me out.”

Rage flashed across his face before settling into a smug satisfaction. The corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re bold to order me around. Who said you had any power over me?”

“No one said that, Saeran,” you said, eyeing his easy stride to you, “You’re reading into things too much. You’re seeing everything as an attack.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Saeran backed you the two paces to the wall and slammed his forearm against it, his wrist grazing the crown of your head—he flinched away. “You’re trying to worm your way under my skin. You’re trying to annoy me so badly that even Ray would come back to life to slap your mouth shut.” His gaze fell to your lips, and he sneered. “You’re disgusting. Vile. And arrogant to think that anything you say or do could have any effect on me. You’re supposed to be the grunt, the lowest of the low. You were made to be trampled.” He absentmindedly picked at his chain, and his eyes glazed over as he scanned your face. “You don’t deserve the privilege of wilting.”

Rolling your lips inward, you fiddled with your thumbs. Aren’t you supposed to be doing something with your hands?

“ _Hey_ , look at me,” said Saeran, clutching your face and squeezing your cheeks too tightly, “I don’t wanna see your nasty face, but I don’t want you looking anywhere but mine. You’re not allowed to think of anything else, got it?” He shoved your head against the wall, his grip making your teeth cut into the inside of your cheeks. “It’s either got to be pleasing me, thinking about how useless you are, or _nothing_. Are you following? Answer me.”

A simple act of rebellion: your eyes drifted to the ceiling.

Saeran thrust your head sideways. “The fuck’s the matter with you?” And—oh, God, oh, fuck—his hand’s slid to your neck now, but it’s not wrapped around it. Instead, he laid it flat against your thyroid and pressed _hard._ “This is a threat! You’re going to die tonight. Hell, I’ll kill you now instead of waiting for the ceremony. It’d be better that way, besides. I’d get to do it. I’d be the one squeezing the life out of you.” Saeran relented, leaving his hand as just skin on skin. “Are you _stupid_? God, fuck—of course you are.” He raised his hand and squeezed at the spots just below your ears, where your jawbone met your neck. “A senseless thing like you can’t even tell when you’re in danger, and that’s basic animal instinct.” Saeran laughed, shaking his head. “I’ve known forever that you’re far from a normal human, but does that mean you’re not even in the animal kingdom? Should I water you from now on?”

Hey, he’s getting better with his insults. You almost want to compliment him for it; he probably doesn’t get many of them.

“ _Say something!_ Or do you have a death wish, airhead?”

“Um, _yes_ ,” you said with difficulty, “Why do you think I keep bugging you for my antidepressants?”

Saeran released you as if you’d burnt him. “And people think Ray is pathetic. Damn.” Twitching into a grin, Saeran trailed his middle finger down your neck. “Still,” he said, tilting his head, “perhaps you’ll lose your mind even without the elixir. If you live that long.” He stopped at the collar of your dress and tapped it twice. “Show me the bite mark.”

“Funny that you’d bother to make it an order,” you said, shooting him a glare as you yanked your collar to the side. The mark curved over your shoulder, like he’d wanted as much of you in his mouth as he could have, and though its redness had considerably faded, each tooth still made its dent in your skin.

With the first genuine smile you’ve seen on him, Saeran reached out to touch it, revelling in the broken blood vessels near his bottom incisors. “Fascinating,” he said under his breath, “Your body may be more fragile than…” He licked his lips. “Shall I bite you there again, increase the pain and cut into a bruise? Or would you prefer I bite your other side. Mark you up more.” He hummed and gave the mark a pinch—your whole body winced in surprise more than pain. A quiet laugh. “Either way, it’s an improvement to what you naturally look like.”

Saeran yanked you against him, his hand pressing between your shoulder blades to hold you there, and he exhaled hot air against the bite mark. “Let’s paint this canvas red,” he said and—your gasp sounded more like choking—sank his teeth into the bruise, biting down harder and harder, like he meant to tear your flesh away.

His tongue flicked across the skin between his teeth, and he conceded. “Blood,” he said, taking a moment to let it seep and swell before licking it again, “Excellent. Then again, I’ve always been a fan of perfect symmetry.” Saeran bit the opposite shoulder with the same vigour, and you clenched your mouth shut—no reaction, no reaction—but you let out your held breath when he announced blood. His tongue languidly swiped across your shoulder, resting on where his front teeth made you bleed. Saeran muttered, “Rule of thirds,” and bit you _again_ , this time where your shoulder curves into arm.

His hold on you trapped your upper arms, so without power to push him away, you couldn’t do much besides clutch at his back, dig your fingernails into his coat, and hope he gets the point.

Saeran saw the truth but saw it slant. He pulled back and laid his hand flat against your throat again. “Don’t tell me you _enjoyed_ that. Freak. But if you enjoy having me mark you up, then I’ll be glad to do it. The rest of Mint Eye will see you and know that you’re nothing but something I own, with no control over your own body.”

“That implies you’ll let me roam around the building again,” you said.

“No, you idiot, it means your fucking value will be solely in your body. I’ll wear you down, grind you against the millstone, and when it’s worn out, I’ll dispose of you.”

“Wait, I’m confused,” you said, not confused at all, “You say my value will be in my body, which you solely will be using, but you’ve also established you hate it. You also say I’ll be worn out, which implies erosion over time. Aren’t you killing me today?”

“Shut up,” said Saeran, lowering his head to your shoulder, teeth parting in preparation, “Just shut the fuck up. You’re too dumb to be acting smart, like you know _anything_. There’s nothing floating around in your brain.” But he snapped his jaw shut and dragged his closed mouth over the second bite mark and up your neck. He scowled against your skin, his nose wrinkling.

With a grunt, he pushed himself off of you and held his sleeve to his nose. “Damn, your scent gets worse by the minute. Do you even touch the soap when you bathe, or can you not even recognise it?”

“There are dead flowers everywhere, Saeran,” you said, and you edged away from the wall. You had a better chance if you weren’t cornered. “You brought them in. I can’t take them out.”

Gritting his teeth, Saeran spun around and glanced at the remains of the wilted bouquet he’d shredded in fury yesterday, slivers of crunchy petals scattered across the carpet. “I’m used to the scent of death,” he spat, “It’s you that’s so pungent. I told you to take care of it. If you can’t obey such a simple command, then—”

“Do we want to address how I’ve only been given one outfit, while my original one was confiscated?”

“I’m going to rip your brain in half after I skull-fuck you, because the way it processes information is not fucking normal. Did you expect a new fucking wardrobe, like the princess the RFA claims you are? You’re nothing but a toy. Albeit a conceited, selfish, rude toy, but I’ll beat that out of you, yeah?” Saeran took a step closer to you, a grin cutting across his face when you automatically stepped back. “Yeah. _That_ expression. That’s what I like to see.”

“Skull-fuck?” you asked in a small voice. It was the first blatantly sexual thing he’d said to you; everything else was abuse that left you feeling a queasy combination of turned on, baffled, and empathetic for this weird-ass man whose life was nothing but trauma.

“I guess it falls to me to teach you how to clean yourself,” said Saeran, and he grabbed your wrist to yank you towards the bathroom, “Can’t do anything for yourself. No wonder you failed your mission.” He halted before the bathroom door. “Then again,” he said slowly, completely ignoring your trying to get free, “the more defiled you are, the more magnificent your cleansing will be.”

Saeran seized your collar and tried to rip your dress, but the fabric held. “Weak-ass mother…” He simply mouthed the rest of it, frowning at your dress.

“Saeran?”

He stuck out his jaw and shunted you onto the bed with both hands, and he shifted his weight to one foot and crossed his arms. “Take it off.”

Raising an eyebrow, you pushed yourself up on your elbows (harder than it looked because of how much the heaps of pillows gave in). “Sure. Allow me to set myself on fire first.”

“You and that mouth,” said Saeran, placing a knee on the bed, “Fine. It doesn’t have to come off.”

When his fingers touched the dress hem, you kicked him in the chest, and a hand shot to the spot as he backed away. “You are _not_ having sex with me,” you said, scooting backwards towards the headboard, “You’re not getting that. You can yell at me all you want, starve me, keep me isolated, but that’s mine.”

“I would have already taken you, if you were someone remotely attractive. You have no say in this.” Saeran reached for you, and you kicked him again, this time in the forehead. “ _Stop_ that! You have no right to fight against what’s going to happen. You’ve sat and taken everything that’s been thrown at you like a _sap_ with no free will,” he said, hunched over, “so what makes this any different?” Chest heaving, he inched around to the side of the bed. “Don’t tell me: you’re in _love_ with _Ray_ , and fucking me would feel like some sort of betrayal? You’d do it with him.” Saeran rushed to straddle you from the side, so kicking him was out of the question; he pinned your wrists deep into the pillows.

“Get _off_ ,” you said, trying and failing to whack him with your elbow.

His thighs tightened around your waist. “You don’t really want me to do that. You may love Ray and despise everything I am, princess, but we share a body. We share a mind. And I saw what he thinks of you, how he thinks, and _oh_. If you could see what I could see,” Saeran said, leaning down to mutter in your ear (his eyelashes brushed against your cheek), “you’d be more afraid of him than me.”

You sighed heavily, and he, scowling, sat back, putting his weight fully on you. He brought your hands towards him and placed them on his thighs, sliding them up to either side of his cock without touching it, and he waited.

Drumming your fingers against his thighs twice, you looked away. “Fine,” you said, “Fine! It was—God, Saeran, this is embarrassing.”

He raised his eyebrows curtly. Time for a partial truth.

“When we were in the garden, you and—Ray and me, that was—that was my first kiss.” Right. Let’s hope he takes that and doesn’t press for further reasons.

Saeran laughed. “His, too.”

“Yours?”

“That’s none of your business. But I’m glad,” he said, easing your hands to his knees as he bent towards you (steady, cautious, like a rattlesnake about to strike), “It means that all your firsts belong to me.”

Your second kiss had a fleeting moment without force, where he simply pressed his lips to yours, where your chest felt strangely light, but that was before he pried your jaw open and shoved his tongue inside to flick against the roof of your mouth, before he moved to pull your hair. With your hands now free, on impulse you wrapped an arm around his neck, gripped the shorter hairs at his nape, and stroked his cheek with the back of your fingers. Saeran pressed his bottom teeth into your lower lip while his tongue still worked against yours, and he sucked on it before he broke away.

“You like me,” he said, panting while clasping your fingers to his face, “You _like_ me. I knew it. I fu—” He paused to catch his breath. “You’ve completely gone mad, waiting in here alone. You’re either foolish enough to have fallen for me, after all I’ve done to you, or you’re shallow enough to have fallen for this body, and you don’t care who’s in it. Both very revealing, I’m afraid.” He formed his hand in your hair into a fist. “A woman of no character.”

“It’s probably just me reconciling my trauma with an unhealthy coping mechanism,” you said, and you swept his bangs out of his eyes. “That’s what a lot of BDSM participants are doing subconsciously, anyway.”

“Wrong.” Saeran planted his lips against your neck, this time using his tongue as he descended it. “What you feel for me is fucking _genuine_.”

“Yeah, okay, but you don’t have to rub it in,” you said, and when he tried to flip up your dress, you yelped and elbowed him off, putting more distance between you with another kick. “Saeran. I already told you I’m not going to have sex with you.”

Saeran wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why the fuck not? You like me.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t merit immediate sex. Where’d you learn that from?” You sat up on your knees once he did—he couldn’t pounce on you from there. “Oh, my God, has Rika sexually abused you? Is that part of conditioning in Mint Eye?”

“Fuck no. Why would the saviour be interested in me? She has other believers for that.” Scratching the back of his head where you’d touched him, Saeran slinked off the bed and strode towards the tea table, where he flicked off dead petals and rummaged in a drawer. “You shouldn’t be so concerned about me. Don’t tell me what to do. You should be worried for yourself.”

“Is this the part where you lecture me on how much I suck before you rape me? It’d be great if you could skip to stabbing me, because both of those are against the agenda.”

“You’re so calm.”

“I’m really not.”

“You act like it. Now, get over here,” Saeran said, easing himself onto the floor, “and let me brush your hair.”

“Do— _huh_? I saw you grab a knife out of the drawer; I’m not—”

“It’s a hairbrush.” He held it up. “Now get your _damn_ ass over here before I drag you.” He patted the floor between his legs.

You opened your mouth to protest but closed it. His scowl lessened when you slid off the bed, and you reluctantly sat with your back to his chest.

“Sit forward, dumbass, or I can’t reach your hair.” Saeran forced you to hunch over. “Spread your legs so that they’re against mine, and your hands are gonna be on my legs if you don’t want them sliced off.”

So, you parted your legs and did as he said, furrowing your brow. What the hell?

“Couple of things,” he said, starting the first stroke—the brush must be one of those lame decorative ones with super short bristles, because you could barely feel it. “One, your legs’ll be spread for me a lot, princess, and I want you to get used to feeling exposed. Two, I’m used to planning while brushing the saviour’s hair in the morning. She lets me. She doesn’t let anyone else. It’s a privilege for me, and now it’s a privilege for you.” His other hand sneaked around your throat and pressed against your pulse point. “Three, and I’ll be able to tell if you lie to me, I’m not gonna rape you. It’ll be more humiliating if you enjoy it. So, I want you to tell me what I can do to get you out of your nervous headspace and onto my cock.”

What he said shot warmth to your lower body. Yikes.

“Not to mention, I bet you’d hate it if I had to send someone to get lube.”

Caught off guard, you laughed through your nose.

He paused and gripped your hair. “What’s so _funny_?”

“Nothing, nothing; I’m sorry. Sorry. Didn’t mean to. Coping mechanism.”

Saeran resumed brushing and grumbled about your laughing while there’s rape and death on the line. “C’mon, then. _Tell_ me. Don’t lie to me.”

“I was hoping not to have this conversation.” You scratched his knee, thinking it was your own for a moment, and you shook yourself.

He tapped your pulse point.

“Okay. I know this is dumb, and shit, and I know it doesn’t matter for a lot a people because it’s freeing, but it matters to me, and I know it’s dumb, but I’m—” You pursed your lips. “I’m not exactly a sex-before-marriage kind of girl.”

His cold laughter was so forceful that the breath of it hit your neck. “Are you _fucking_ kidding me? That’s—” He cut himself off with a snort.

“Listen! I,” you said, frowning while his laughter grew louder, and you pinched his thigh to get his attention.

“Oi! Don’t do that.” He swatted your hand away.

“Okay, okay, okay, fuck _you_ , and I’ve never been kissed before this kind of thing because no one’s ever liked me and because I’m super weird about this sort of thing; I have abandonment issues. It would completely fuck me up if someone slept with me and never spoke to me again.” You blindly elbowed him. “Shut up and brush my hair.”

It took him a minute, but after clamping his hand over his mouth, Saeran eventually stopped laughing. “Is that everything?” He dragged the brush through a tangle. “It’s not, isn’t it?”

“No.” You sighed. Might as well. “It’s also a sin to have sex before marriage, and while I know that every sin is weighted equally, and I’ve sinned so much in my lifetime, this one in particularly would ruin my psyche entirely.” You said it all in a rush, like he wouldn’t hear it. “Because before I thought for myself in my faith and actually read the fucking scriptures, it was drilled into me that lust is someone worse than all the other sins and that having sex before marriage is a one-way ticket to hell, and even now that I know better, the residual fear and guilt would totally fuck me up.”

This time, Saeran buried his head in your neck to stifle his laughter.

“I get it’s funny to _you_ ,” you said, frowning, “but I’m being serious.” You shut up after that, because his face against your neck was really doing something to you. You’re not used to be touched intimately at all.

When he was done, Saeran wrapped an arm around your waist and jerked you towards him. “So, all I have to do is marry you, and you’ll do it?”

_All he has to do?_ If you were brave enough to speak, it would have been through a stutter. Was marriage enough? He couldn’t love you, surely, and though you liked— _gag_ , loved—him, would one-sided affection be enough for the rest of your life? Saeran wasn’t in the faith; there’s no reason he’d be loyal to you. He might still fuck around with other believers—

Wait, he’d said the garden was his first kiss. Ray’s, anyway, but that’s just him being stubborn. And he said Rika hadn’t abused him.

Right, so if you get married just to make you feel better and so he’ll get his rocks off, odds are, he’ll spend most of his time away from you except for when he’s fucking you, because that’s what he wants, right? Right.

But if you’re still mouthy and comforting when he’s with you, he might eventually stop hating himself, confront his trauma, and eventually get on the road to recovery. You have enough experience in therapy to guide him along, so maybe it could work.

There’s no doubt he’ll never love you, but if you can get him to love himself…

“I’m dying tonight otherwise, yes?”

Saeran wiped a tear away. “Yeah.”

“And there’s no way for me to escape.”

“Not a chance.”

“Then, yeah,” you said, turning around in his arms, “Marry me, Saeran. Unless you’re too scared.”

“ _Ha!_ Fucking hell,” he said, cackling as you cupped his cheeks (his hands flew to your wrists), “My little _toy_ is so horny that she’d bind herself to me. How _shameful_.”

“Yeah?” You moved your hips slightly. “I’m not the one who’s had a hard-on this whole time. I wonder what _Rika_ thinks of you since you get off on brushing hair.”

“Hm?” Saeran looked down. “S’pose you _would_ feel that.” After a moment of snaking his hand down to his pants, he wrestled out a gun and tossed it to the side, bouncing on the carpet before falling still.

“You’ve had a _gun_ this whole time? What’d you bother trying to strangle me for?”

“Not for you,” said Saeran, laying his hands on yours to keep your warmth on his face, “You don’t deserve a quick death. When I kill you, it’ll be long and drawn out. Want to get married?”

Talk about emotional whiplash. But you nodded, scanning his face for deception. “Yeah, Saeran. I do.”

“Freak,” he said, standing, but he pulled you up with him. “The saviour’s too busy for us to bother her in person.” He snatched his phone off the tea table. “She can just marry us over the phone.”

His arm was around your waist as he dialled her number single-handedly, and God, fuck, no one’s ever held you before. This is weird; this is confusing; this is—

“My saviour,” said Saeran, bowing slightly even though she couldn’t see him, “My toy has a request to make of you.” He set his phone on speaker and held it near your mouth.

You mouthed _What?!_ as outraged as you could, and after a moment of panicking, you frantically shook your head and mouthed _Please_.

“Saeran,” came Rika’s stern voice, “I don’t have all day. Discipline her if you need to.”

“My apologies, my saviour.” Saeran tightened his grip on your waist and rolled his eyes. “She’s speechless even at the suggestion of your presence. Her request is that you marry us.”

There’s silence on Rika’s end. “Did she put this idea in your head? I warned you about manipulation.”

“No, saviour, I want this.” He deliberately wasn’t looking at you. “I want her permanently bound to me and no one else. It’s eternal ownership. Degradation, on her part. Even on the impossible chance the RFA rescues her, she’ll always know part of her belongs to me forever. She can’t escape even then.”

Someone called for Rika, and she answered away from the phone. “I’m busy, Saeran,” she said into the mouthpiece, “Are you sure? What does she get out of this?”

“Pfft, basically nothing. A little security so that she’ll put out.”

“Fine,” said Rika, and she spoke to someone else again. “Short ceremony, or—”

“Short.”

Rika sighed, and her voice sounded exhausted. “Saeran. Do you vow to lose yourself in this woman and, together, to further lose yourself in Mint Eye?”

His mouth quirked upward. “Yes, I do.”

Another sigh. “And do you vow to lose yourself in this man and, together, to further lose yourself in Mint Eye?”

Oh, wow. This was progressing faster than you thought it would. “I do.”

“Then I declare you bound for life.” She barely got the words out before she hung up.

“Well,” you said, “that was rather unorthodo—”

His mouth was on your before you could finish; he was holding you so, so closely that your back arched against him, but his lips, moving against yours (trying to be confidant but clearly not knowing quite what to do), held warmth, and though you knew you were fooling yourself, you decided to interpret it as love.

When Saeran broke away, your mouth followed his, but he nudged you back. He tugged on the corner of your mouth with his thumb. “Open your mouth a little more, princess.”

He’s got you leaning against the tea table, and his hands kept flitting about, as if this would stop if they stilled: running down your back, edging down your sides, briefly grazing one of your boobs, and curling into your hair. He sucked on your tongue for a moment before pulling away.

“Wish I could pick you up,” he said and dragged his lips across your jawline to your ear, “Then I’d carry you to the bed and throw you on. Watch that scared expression of yours. Fear in your eyes.”

“Why don’t you?”

There’s a grunt in the back of his throat, and while he nibbled on your earlobe, he brought your hand to his bicep, where he squeezed over your hand.

“Bet you still could. I believe in you,” you said, tugging on his hair affectionately.

“Another time, then.” Saeran instead backed you to the bed and pushed you down when the back of your knees hit it.

“Want me to still act scared?”

“I don’t want _anything_ from you unless it’s genuine, got it?” he snapped. He reached down to part your legs to stand between them, and he yanked off his chain, the snaps clicking shut.

You nodded. “Aw, you’re taking it off?”

Tossing it aside, Saeran said, “What’re you on about? You’ll be even worse to look at if it chips your teeth.”

“It’s super hot.”

“Really.” Scowling, he shed his coat, almost ripping it off, and he let it fall to the floor, as if he didn’t give a damn about it. “Tell me more things you like about me. Unzip your dress while you’re at it.”

“Well,” you said, reaching behind your arched back to grapple with the zipper, “You have more determination that anyone else I’ve ever met. Your level of focus is unmatched.”

(He lost his focus unbuttoning his shirt; he was busy staring at your tits as they strained against the fabric.)

“You can be unnervingly charming, when you want to be. You’ve fooled me several times. Not to mention you’re incredibly persuasive; you can make anyone do what you want.” You propped your head on your hand. He said to unzip the dress, not take it off. “And from what I’ve seen and heard, you’re one of the best hackers out there. Even Luciel’s having trou—”

“That’s enough.” Saeran swung a leg over yours and brought the other one to your crotch. “Don’t you _dare_ mention any of the RFA anymore; you’re not theirs. Your whole world is me from now on, got it?”

“Yes, sir,” you said, tugging him by the shirt collar down to you, and you were smiling into the kiss, hands lying on his chest, unbuttoning the next-to-top button.

“Hey,” said Saeran, his face flushed, “Who said you could do that? Idiot. _I’m_ the one in control here. Don’t get any sick ideas in your head.”

“All right.” Taking his hands, you arranged them as if he were pinning you down. “Tell me what to do, Saeran.”

Screwing up his face, Saeran inched your dress off one shoulder. “Empty your head.”

_No thoughts head empty_

And he was kissing his way down your neck, not bothering to be neat about it and leaving saliva and small, red marks in his wake; he snickered when you cringed in pain at his further rough treatment to your bite marks, sucking and re-biting.

He was scraping his top teeth over the whole of a previous bite when he stopped himself. “Aren’t you supposed to be making noise?”

“You said you didn’t want anything if it weren’t real. And! And,” you said when he bared his teeth, “I’m always silent when I touch myself, so I’m not used—”

“Say more about your masturbation sessions,” said Saeran, tugging down the other sleeve, too.

“Only when we get there,” you said through gritted teeth, and you helped him loose your arms from the dress. “Wanna tell me about _yours_ , bucko?”

“With pleasure,” he said, and he plopped all of his weight on you, only alleviated by his propping his head on both his hands, each of his elbows on either side of your head. “Or, actually, not. Because I think of you when I’m trying to get rid of a boner. Ray, on the other hand—you would be repulsed by him. If he were here and tried to do what he wants to you, you’d weep and run straight into my arms. You just might think I might save you, but in this situation, I think I’d put our feud on ice and hold you down, just so he could have his way with you.”

You ran your hand through his hair. “And what does he want, Saeran?”

“This isn’t about him.” He sat up and crossed his arms, biting the inside of his cheek.

“What do _you_ want, Saeran?”

That brought him back. “I want to fucking ruin you.” He grabbed a handful of the dress and pulled it down until it looped around your ankles and he could chuck it somewhere, and only after he threw it on a chair did he look at you.

His expression fell blank.

For a while.

Squirming, you hid your stomach. “Listen, I know you’re not going to say I’m beautiful, but this _is_ the first time I’ve been mostly naked in front of anyone, so if you could yell at me some more—”

“Quiet.” Glowering, he grazed the top of your foot before lifting it, rubbing his thumb around the inside of your ankle. When his eyes fell on your stomach in his perusal of your body, he gestured _shoo_ , and you removed your arms and focused on the ceiling.

Your ankle burned.

“Ah, ah, princess. Look at me.” Saeran held your gaze as he raised your ankle to his mouth and began kissing his way up your leg. He was halfway to your knee when you jerked away. “What _now_?”

“Are you sure? I haven’t shaved in a while—”

“Goddammit.” Saeran pinched the bridge of his nose. “I told you to empty your head. Shut up and let me fuck you.” He clicked his tongue. “Why do you care? Does it embarrass you?”

Your silence was as much of an answer as any.

“Incredible. But it’s in character for my toy to be so shallow, so selfish, so damn obsessed with herself,” he said, sliding his hands up your legs, “Bet you’re unshaved up here, too.” He hooked his fingers in the side of your underwear, but his eyebrows shot up; he was stopping; he was—

“I would have if I had known I was gonna have sex; I’m sorry. I wasn’t given a razor—”

“You _think_ ,” said Saeran, his hands shaking, “You think I’d leave you alone with a damn _razor_ after _this_?” He scratched down the faded self-harm scars on your thigh, digging into your flesh. “And don’t think I didn’t see the ones on your forearms, either, princess; I saw you trying to hide them yesterday. God _fucking_ —” He crawled atop you, gripping your hips (grinding them against his) and holding up your arm, scanning your inner forearm for the scars—and there they are. “I can’t ever leave you alone _again._ Your life doesn’t belong to you. You hear me?”

Nodding, you closed your eyes and turned your head to the side. You forgot about those. And now to have _him_ lecture you on how you should take care of yourself?

“It’s mine to use and mine to take. _You_ don’t get the privilege of killing yourself, princess. I do. They—they mar your skin, anyway. They make you look even worse—”

You grabbed his chin and kissed him, inching your hand upwards to cup his cheek, stroking your thumb on his cheekbone, and you were inhaling him, wanting more of his taste, of his scent (it’s some sort of strawberry pie, that you know, but what else? It’s floral but not floral. You’d say wisteria if you’d seen any in the garden). And—and Saeran made a noise against your mouth. It’s not a moan, but it’s not angry, either; it has the loose air of relief. He nibbled at your lower lip and only stopped to break for air.

“Those scars are from over a year ago, Saeran,” you said, nestling a hand in his hair while he panted into your neck, “Please believe me. I’m not going to do anything like that anytime soon. I’m too much of a coward.”

Kissing the underside of your chin (twice, the second time claiming more skin), he reached for your forearm, and he bit gently into your scars while snaking a hand to your crotch. He ran two fingers back and forth and grimaced. “You’re not very wet.”

“I’m not very aroused.”

“Let me amend that,” said Saeran, planting a final kiss to your scars. “Do you know what you like? Hm? Then we’ll figure out what makes you squirm _together_. I’m going to reduce you to a pathetic, mewling mess; I’m going to fuck you until your legs crumple and your eyes roll up.” He circled your clit through your underwear, flicking the hood. “I’ll fuck you until you burst like a bottle rocket, and then? Then you’ll _beg_ me to hurt you just a little more.”

Saeran bit your nipple through your bra while he blindly tried to unhook it; you stretched to do it for him, and he hummed a thanks around your nipple once it was free. He kissed and sucked down to the valley of your breasts, where he took one, long suck before glancing up at you.

“Look at _you_ ,” he said, rolling your nipple with his thumb while he kissed up your other boob, “Biting your lip. Chin wavering. Fear that you might react. Are you taking your mind elsewhere? I didn’t say you could.”

“I’m not,” you said, staring at the ceiling (until he drew a finger down your neck, beckoning you to watch him as he licked up the curve of your breast and up to your clavicle), “Hoo boy. This is a lot for me; this is so much. I’ve never felt—you’re making me feel _so good_ and honestly? So frightened.”

“Tell me why.”

“I’m scared of what I might discover,” you said, mouth hanging open as he kissed his way down your ribcage, “I’m scared I might get addicted to you.”

Saeran grinned, the front of his teeth pressing into your skin. “I don’t see the problem.” He nipped the underside of your breast, sucking the spot hard when your hand flew to his hair. His hiccupped in his work licking where your ribcage fell to softer stomach, when you took his hand still squeezing your boob and brought it to your lips. The pause while you kissed his knuckles shot more heat to your core than anything else he’d done.

He wrenched his hand away from you and instead gripped your hips, and he flattened his tongue to lick from the elastic of your underwear up to your navel. He shook off your hand from his head. “Hands off. Keep them together against the headboard, as if they’re tied.”

Oh, come on. First he won’t take off his shirt, and now you’re not allowed to touch him?

Saeran removed your underwear with much more gentleness than you expected, and he tucked them into his back pocket. Spreading your legs, Saeran lowered his head, and his eyes glazed over, swaying slightly.

“Saeran? Saeran, are you all right?” Are you _that_ gross?

He blinked. “Got dizzy for a second. My last caffeine pill must be wearing off. This is frustrating.”

“Do you have any pills hidden somewhere?” You sat up, stretching towards the bedside table. “I can get them for you.”

“No!” Saeran wrapped his arms around your thighs and held you to the bed. “You’re not leaving. You’re staying here. Fuck,” he said, trying and failing to take an even breath, and he met your clit in an open-mouthed kiss, his tongue rising through your folds.

“Oh, my God,” you said, blinking once, twice—there was a jolt in your stomach you didn’t recognise—three times. “Saeran, Saeran, you’re? Oh, gosh.”

His hand strained around your thigh to pull back your clitoral hood—or, at least, stretch it—and he was sucking on your clit, and _nothing else._ No variation. Just sucking, as hard as he could, over and over again. God, Saeran, do something else; this is a _lot_ all at once, and it’s making you—

Saeran smirked at the squelch when he tore away and at your sputtering, and he continued to rub at your clit—lightly, though. “I believe you promised me your masturbation habits?”

“Wow,” you said, leaning back in exasperation, “ _Wow_. You’re gonna be the death of me, Saeran.”

“Well put. How much do you finger yourself?”

You propped yourself on your elbows to make eye contact with him. “I don’t. I’ve tried, like, four or five times, and I didn’t think much of it. I only do clitoral stimulation.”

Saeran ducked his forehead against your pubic bone, his shoulders shaking and his muffled chortling tickling your labia. “ _Damn_ ,” he said, lifting his head, “Why is everything about you fucking embarrassing?” He let his head fall again, and his hot breath hit you. “Ha. And my fingers are even thicker than yours. You’re in for a time. I hope the stretch makes you scream.”

He returned his mouth to your clit, still stretching the hood, and while he tapped your clit with two fingers, he nipped at your labia, going down on one and up the other. When he began sucking on your clit again, he pressed a finger into your heat, and his eyes flicked up to yours.

“Feeling good, princess?”

“I…I don’t really know.”

But you clenched around him the moment he started moving his finger; it felt better with the constant attention at your clit (yikes), and it was still like it didn’t belong there, but you know what? Whatever.

With a second finger, you could definitely feel the stretch, but it wasn’t horrible; you were just acutely aware of Foreign Object Inside You. You cleared your throat and tried to steady your breath. Saeran circled your clit with his tongue before licking it diagonally, and he separated his fingers inside you, moving them back and forth.

But it wasn’t until the third was added that he started to thrust them and your hips started spasming, and it wasn’t until he curved them in that your eyes shot open with a sharp gasp. Saeran could no longer suck your clit and had to settle for his tongue—his grin broke suction.

He was still grinning when you came, his tongue slowing but increasing pressure to pull you through it. His fingers fell still before he removed them with a rather wet squish.

“God, fuck, Saeran.” You rolled away from him, but he followed you, still licking; your hips bucked. “C’mon, please stop. I just came.”

After a moment, Saeran relented, but he swiped his fingers against you one last time. He stuck two of them in his mouth, making a show of cleaning them. He leant over you, planting his arm by your head. “Suck,” he said, holding the third finger to your lips.

It wasn’t as bad as you expected. A weird texture tasting of basically nothing.

“Proof you’re wet enough to fuck.” Saeran withdrew his finger without warning and sat back to unbuckle his belt.

“Wait, wait, wait,” you said, sitting up, and he glanced up from pulling his belt from the loops, “Does this mean I don’t get to touch you?”

Saeran’s mouth was open for a while before he spoke. “The fuck?” He slid out the last of his belt and dropped it off the bed. “You don’t want that.”

“Yes, I _do_. If nothing else, take off your shirt. Please. I won’t touch,” you said, holding up your hands in surrender, “If nothing else, I just—I want to see you.”

“You can never be satisfied with what you have, can you?”

Pursing your lips, you ducked your head to the side, waiting and pretending as if you hadn’t contemplated that pillow’s type of chevron before.

“It’s hot in here, anyway,” said Saeran, unbuttoning two more before getting frustrated and pulling the shirt off over his head, “Be a shame to sweat through it.” He crept on top of you again, gripping a bite mark with his thumb brushing your collarbone. “Now—”

“Whoa.” Your hand shot to his abdomen, initially flinched due to his warmth, and settled to trace your fingertips down him. “Holy shit? _Saeran_.”

His mouth twitching, Saeran said, “I _told_ you not to _lie_ to me.”

“No, no, no, no; it’s not that. It’s just—oof.” Yes, he wasn’t taking care of himself, and _yes_ , more bones jutted out than they should have, but _God,_ malnutrition couldn’t mask what he must have been like before it all went wrong—and what he could be again. “My God, you are lovely. Look at this; look at your _skin_ ; holy shit. Your waist actually fucking _tapers_ a little, wow, and I could fucking _drink_ out of your collarbones. Saeran. Saeran,” you said, touching his face, “It is important to me that you know you are so very, very pretty.”

He scoffed when you kissed his eyelids, but he still let you do it.

While you were making your way down his cheek to his mouth, Saeran shuffled off his pants and embarrassing boxer-briefs (he made a show about trying to hide himself while not-so-subtly trying to get you to look, so if you saw it and were repulsed, he could throw the blame).

“Oh, no, you don’t,” you said, and you were pushing up on his stomach so that he couldn’t hide, and he was trying/not trying to foil you, and you were crossing your arms and glaring at his cock.

It just wasn’t _fair._

“Oh, do I not meet the standards of my _spoilt_ little—”

“No, dumbass. You exceed them, and I’m pissed about it.” You tilted your head. “You have no business being this pretty. Like, as far as I can tell, you’re really well-shaped, and you’re all flushed and pink, and it’s not fair.”

Saeran grunted. “Are you done?”

“I also appreciate how you haven’t bleached your pubes,” you said, trailing your fingers down the light line of red hair on his lower abdomen, “Humanises you. And it’s cute.”

“Don’t need that.” Saeran gripped his cock, ran his thumb over the leaking head after a few strokes, and lined himself up with you, albeit after some fumbling.

Mesmerised, you watched him, memorising how he handled himself, how rough, what to do, and it took his hands on your hips and the head of his cock nudging you for you to realise, “Hey, wait—don’t you have a condom—?”

The rest of your question was lost to a legitimate _screech_ , a sound that shouldn’t’ve exited your body in any lifetime, and afterwards came empty, empty gasps and sobs scraping against your windpipe as he pushed in as far as he could go.

“ _Fuck_ —” You elbowed him (elbow strongest bone in body, body fight Saeran, Saeran leave, right?). “Fucking _hell_ , Saeran—” Again, this time thrashing. “Get out, get _out_ , get out, get out, _get out_ , get—”

He slapped a palm over your mouth. “How tiresome.”

On impulse, you licked him, at which he rolled his eyes and shoved four of his fingers in your mouth and wriggled them around.

Even with his emaciated body, he still had a hold on you, and he wasn’t _budging_ ; it didn’t matter that you were healthier (although he’s eaten in the past two days); it didn’t matter that he hadn’t stamped the fight out of you yet. The facts still stood that he was a _man_ who had you _under_ and _around_ him, and you couldn’t move or struggle enough to change either.

“Enough of that mouth.” Saeran hadn’t started moving yet, which was a small mercy (there’s something—someone—in you that _isn’t_ you, and it’s prominent, _aching_ , and it’s _s t r e t c h i n g_ you in a place you’ve never reached, that you _can’t_ reach; it’s an undiscovered part of you, and fucking _Saeran_ got to claim it).

“I’ve allowed your indulgences so far.” Saeran, screwing up his face, eased himself out until only the head of his cock still remained. Jaw dropped, eyebrows raised, blinking profusely—mouth searching for an exclamation but only settling on, “Hm.” He pushed in again, this time in large, jerkier increments—more impatient. “You should indulge _me_ , princess.”

He gripped your hips to the point of leaving lighter marks in your skin and slapped the spot once released; he laced his fingers through your pubic hair and _pulled_ (that got a breathy huff around his fingers, so he kept returning to that). He pinched at your ribcage, scratched down your sides—fucking you slowly, grimacing in what might be pleasure, going at such a pace for his benefit rather than yours (he sometimes had to stop and catch his breath).

“I might actually come if I can’t hear your voice,” said Saeran, curling his fingers to press down on your tongue, “Perhaps I should smother you.”

You gagged, and he grinned.

“Or maybe, ha, maybe I should take you with me to the computer lab, tie you up, legs spread,” said Saran, and he found the stamina to go faster, “Mouth gagged, blindfolded—maybe earplugs, too, devoid you of all your senses—and keep you in the broom closet. Only use you on a whim, come and go as I please—otherwise you’re kneeling in there, dripping onto the floor, waiting and waiting and _waiting_ to be used, to be touched. Do whatever I want to you.” His breathing stuttered, and he leant in (initially misjudging, lips colliding with your cheekbone). “And you’d be _fine_ with it because we’re _married_ , hm?”

His fingers muffled an involuntary yelp once he slapped your thigh.

“Admit it.” Saeran swept back his hair, partially sticking due to sweat. “You gave up your freedom exclusively for this cock. You were so close without knowing it. I was gonna let you go after eleven days. After the party.” He was panting with every thrust now, and your eyes were watering. “I was gonna _fake_ the ceremony for you, dress you up like you were worth something.” He licked up the side of your neck, ending with a soft _fuck_ muttered in your ear. “Say you were the best believer out of all of us. But now you’re _bound_ with that _chain_ that you thought was so attractive. You gave it all up for me. Gave up your life, the outside world. Gave up the _sky_.”

You bit down on his fingers, and he laughed at you before bending down to kiss you roughly, wiping your spit on your boob and flicking your nipple for good measure. You hummed and cut yourself off (can’t show can’t _show_ ), and Saeran, peeling his mouth from yours, took your chin.

“Now, now,” he said, eyes half-lidded, “Suppress nothing. I want truth. If you hide your noises from me, there’ll be hell to pay. Understand? I _said_ , do you under—”

“I do, Saeran, yes,” you said in a rush, your stomach feeling tight, “Um, sorry to bother you, but I’m close.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep, silent breath. “I can feel you.”

Hands on your hips, trying to get the right angle, Saeran put all the concentration he could on increasing speed. “God,” he said from the back of his throat, “The things I could do to you, oh; the saviour wouldn’t have any excuse to throw you away. Convert you, condition you, mould you into what I want— _oh._ ” He swallowed. “Could knock you up, have the first baby in Mint Eye, be untouchable with great honours—”

“Shit! Saeran, Saeran, Saeran, please, darling, master, saviour, _please_ , please, I can’t get pregnant. I can _not_ get pregnant,” you said, desperately clutching at his shoulders, his neck, his face—how to get the point across (where is your dignity?)? “Please don’t, sir, _please_ ; it would fuck me up beyond all recognition. I really can’t. _Please._ I know you said you wanted to ruin me, but this would _actually_ and _truly_ —”

And Saeran kissed you, his thumb stroking your cheek.

“Shh, shh, shh, _shh,_ I get it,” he said (all cirrus clouds), his hips grinding down to almost a halt (eyes wide, eyes glistening), “I won’t. I won’t. Hm?” He wiped away the tracks your tears had made down your face. “I promise I won’t.” He pressed his lips to yours—and that was all. A silent and soft reassurance.

When he had shaken himself out of it and had rolled his shoulders back (a quick glance towards you, and you nodded), he started moving again with a newfound force. “As if—as if you deserved to bear the first child in Mint Eye. The honour should go to someone who actually _cares_ about Mint Eye, someone who can actually take care of herself.” His hips spasmed. “I should probably…” Saeran reached for your clit, rubbing it until your pulsing turned into a throbbing clench.

He pulled out before you could ride out it entirely, but he hunched over and jerked at himself until he came on your stomach in hot bursts.

Saeran collapsed over you, his semen sticking to both your chests; he yanked a bunch of your hair towards himself and inhaled. “Tell me you—” His chest rose and fell. “Do you love me?”

“Haven’t you been paying attention?”

His mouth twitched. “Then _say it_.”

“And I’ll say it as much as you like,” you said, brushing a hand through his hair (consciously ignoring the multiple questionable events that have occurred between the two of you), “I love you, Saeran. Unconditionally. You don’t have to say or do anything to make me love you or prove you’re worthwhile. You have worth just by existing. Just by being you.”

Silence.

Then there’s rustling. “Well, enough of that. That idiot might’ve cracked the firewall by now, so I’ve got to get going.” Saeran sat up and reached for his shirt, throwing it over his head and fumbling blindly for his pants. “I’ve wasted enough time.”

“Excuse me?”

“What, did you expect me to hold you afterwards? To _cuddle_?” Saeran zipped up his pants with a little jump. “Waste of time. Waste of mental labour. I’m busy; I’ve got stuff that only the saviour trusts me to do.”

Buttoning up the shirt. Pulling on the jacket. Attaching the chain. “You’re revolting, you know? Fucking ghastly. No one needs to see the shit you pull. Even your frightened expressions are wearing on me.” He yanked on his socks. “Boring and absolutely useless. The day you wither away, I’ll be grateful.”

“Wait a fucking second,” you said, rounding to him and grabbing _his_ chin, making _him_ look up at _you._ “Let me come with you.”

You held his glare, and Saeran eventually scoffed and resumed tying his shoelace.

He let you hold his hand on the way there.


	2. tithe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn't except to write a second chapter, but it felt like it wasn't done cooking. Like Saeran and you had more to say.
> 
> It's fucked up, ladies. Time to bite into it.

You weren’t allowed the black robes of a full believer, but you held your head high and pretended like you couldn’t hear the others’ conversations reverberating across the cafeteria. They shuffled away from you while you went through the buffet line (damn it; the second shift had cooked today. You preferred the third), and though practically none of them had spoken to you directly, the believers knew who you were. You stood out, really, with your natural eye colour, your civilian clothes, and the massive chain of bruises encompassing your neck, covering your collarbone and top of your shoulder blades in a macabre combination of blues, purples, and yellows.

He wouldn’t let you hide it, either. He’d said it was his mark; he’d said it was evidence that you belonged to him. Gone out of his way to wrangle up clothes for you with wide necks or spaghetti straps (otherwise, very modest clothing—he didn’t want anyone else seeing your body). Kept biting you. You winced every time a harsh fabric grazed your bruises, let alone his teeth.

The impulse to sit alone at a table passed, and you carried a tray through the capacious castle halls back to Saeran’s room. Well—you slid his plate onto his desk out of range for accidentally knocking it over—it was yours, too, at this point. Knickknacks that had become yours now were packed away into your own drawer, and your phone was charging next to his.

Saeran hadn’t acknowledged the plate and kept coding, so, since he didn’t want you right now, you slid down the wall next to the outlet, sat on the floor to eat, and scrolled through the now-limited functions of your phone.

The RFA app was dead. Its members could be dead, for all you knew, but you couldn’t get rid of it, even if you wanted to. It was the only way Saeran could call you. No service out here, just great wifi, so.

Barely any access to even default apps. Extremely limited internet for you. Mostly just the Gutenberg Project website, which was related to your work assignment.

Saeran blindly reached for his plate and ate silently by the glow of his computer screens. At least he’s eating. Maybe you’ll convince him to eat carbs soon.

The cathedral bells rumbled across the grounds and shook the glass in the windows. Eight o’clock. Almost time for vespers. Standing, you stretched towards the ceiling, ever silent, and you treaded across worn carpet to the closet where he kept the formal robes. You laid your vesper robes on your side of the bed, comparing the navy to your complexion.

Oh, wait, you’re supposed to wear those tights for vespers now that it’s autumn. God, fuck, he would _kill_ you if you bothered him right now, but _shh_ , calm down, you’d be following his own directions if you did. He has to get ready, too, so perhaps he’d be grateful for getting out of the coding headspace?

Shit.

You placed a tentative hand on his shoulder, and he promptly smashed it with his fist. “No,” he said, “Fuck off.”

“Saeran, I’m really sorry to bother you; I know you’re busy and that your work is important, and I’m sorry—”

“Spit it out, woman,” he said, not tearing his attention from the screen.

You fiddled with the hem of your shirt. “It’s eight o’clock, and we have to have wet hair for vespers; I’d go ahead and shower without bothering you, but since the dress code now requires tights, I need to shave.”

“Damn it,” said Saeran, saving quickly and putting the screens to sleep, “You get your shit and go ahead. I’ll meet you there. Last stall, if either are available.”

Neither were free, but you managed to get one without anyone using the stalls immediately adjacent. It’d be great to have shower shoes, but for some fucking reason, no. Who was on cleaning duty for this floor?

The standard-issue sponge scraped over your bruises like it was wire, but at least you could wash the sweat away. Listening to other believers laugh over their stall doors, some harmonising with whoever was singing on the other side—this place, at least, held the most humanity in the whole of Mint Eye, so even though you could barely bend over in the stall, you weren’t exactly missing the private bathroom you’d had attached to the bedroom Ray had prepared for you.

Okay, you missed the expensive soap.

Your stall door creaked open, and you held your breath behind the curtain before Saeran thrust the razor towards you. “Here,” he said, “and hurry your ass up about it. I’ve still got to get ready, and I’m the one who matters.”

“Thank you,” you said, taking it, “I’m sorry. Would you hand me my— _shit,_ Saeran.”

He yanked the curtain aside, staring you down as he sat on the wooden stool outside of it, setting your shower bucket on the floor.

“Right,” you said, shakily removing the razor cap, “Sorry. Forgot for a moment. But you really don’t have to supervise me.”

“Your scars say otherwise.” Saeran leant forward and rested his elbows on his knees, the shower spray sprinkling his face. “Get to it. Don’t waste my time any more than you already have.”

And so, Saeran scrutinised you while you contorted yourself in the tiny stall to shave, his eyes lingering on your thighs and forearms. Barking at you to hurry up. Making the same order not to touch your pubic hair (he liked pulling it when you were close). Remarking that hair removal doesn’t change how disgusting you are and that he doesn’t see why you even try, since you’ll never be beautiful.

“Thanks, Saeran.” You twisted the water spout off and gave him the razor. “You always know how to make me feel loved.”

You let the sour expression fester once Saeran was taking his own shower, in the bathroom attached to his room, the shower you were specifically not to use (but it’s not like you’re bitter or anything). You yanked on the tights with a violent sort of vigour and briefly got lost in the robes before you sorted them out.

Wet hair for vespers.

What a weird rule. At least it was benign.

Saeran said nothing to you while he prepared, donning his heavily ornamented robes and slicking his wet hair back. The only acknowledgement at all was roughly finger-combing your hair to part it before leaving and expecting you to follow.

Shrouded behind the throne drapes, you knelt with your hands on your knees, fuming and flushed. The rest of Mint Eye were seated in the front of the cathedral, all singing some mad song about world peace through self-hatred. You weren’t even given a hymnal, just hidden and tucked away in a front corner of the sanctuary, like you were laundry just folded and put away in a drawer.

Rika’s silhouette through the curtain showed her sitting with crossed legs on her throne, and Saeran sat at her right hand. He was singing. She wasn’t. The shadow of Rika’s hair still bounced with the slightest movement, like normal.

Bone-dry.

C’mon, stop thinking. Vespers go on for another half hour before Rika prays and dismisses for small group. Fill your head with something that doesn’t require a lot of brain power, okay? Something comforting. Something familiar.

Sighing, you allowed yourself to very slightly lean against the wall, cold stone against your temple. You’d assume posture again before the bow-out.

This isn’t how you pictured married life. Wouldn’t it be nice to feel some sort of warmth? Wouldn’t it be nice to not have to process every shred of information critically due to a chance of brainwashing? Wouldn’t it be nice if each morning could be met with gentle hands and a tender voice?

But you couldn’t picture Saeran in any situation outside of Mint Eye. Just yelling and a need to be in control. Maybe you could start with simpler plans concerning him and move on to interacting with outside society.

Let’s start with a bed—not the cramped one that the two of you shared now but one that’s made with human comfort in mind (why did Saeran seem to punish himself at every opportunity?). It’s big enough that both of you could have personal space, but the two of you are clinging to each other because of how much you want to be near each other; it’s raining outside, and he’s letting you rest your head on his chest, and he’s been eating well enough that no bones poke out, and he’s wearing…you’d say a sweater, but that seems a little too unrealistic. Perhaps a black sweatshirt.

Has Saeran ever held you?

Without the intent to injure you, you meant. It would be a shining moment in this grim fucking cult drudgery if he put all of his work aside to even give you a damn hug and—and _kiss_ the top of your head. Mm. Soft. Soft boy.

You jerked awake to a darkened sanctuary and the imprint of brick on your forehead. Shit, no one woke you up? Saeran had just _left_ you? You strained to listen for any inkling of life, but nothing sounded except for the cathedral settling in the night air.

Standing, you leant against the wall while you shook out your sleep-static legs. He was going to murder you. He’s going to be _so_ pissed. Going back to your room would lead to more pain—would it be worse, then, if you delayed? Would it matter?

It’s a self-preservation instinct to want to avoid him, but it’s also hard to be away from him, on the slim chance he’ll show you affection. God, look at you. You’ve become so weak, the way you’re living now.

_No._ You shook your head. You’re not weak. That’s Mint Eye getting to you.

So, to the gardens it is. If he’s going to hurt you, you might as well be hurt for something you enjoyed.

Your new hiding spot lay near the back and to the left, where the thorny evergreens grew. Since the plot held mostly annuals and conifers, no one tended to it often, and you had pruned away a hole through a boxwood hedge. You could lie down in it and look at the stars.

The boxwood leaves left a sticky residue on your skin, but you lay down among the branches and dirt anyway, folding your arms behind your head (the wood chips mixed with the soil irritated the bruises). If it were a clear night, you would’ve been content to distract yourself with constellations; you haven’t taken a night to see the autumnal ones yet, but a layer of murky grey stratus clouds spread across the sky.

Your phone rang. Biting your lip, you fished it out of your robes and shakily lifted it to your ear.

“Where the hell _are_ you? You’ve kept me waiting,” came Saeran’s voice through the speaker, “I hate to be kept waiting. You’re out of line. Come to our room right _now_ , or there’ll be hell to pay.”

If you could speak, your voice would have been small.

“Get fucked, princess. Tell me where the fuck you are, or I’m coming to get you.” A door slammed on his end. Already searching.

Maybe he hadn’t been back. He leads a small group, after all. “How do you know I’m not already in the bedroom?”

“Because you would’ve been fucked senseless by now, you _cheeky_ thing. I’ve torn the room apart looking for you,” said Saeran, “and now I’ve gotten _angry._ Tell me _where_ you are.”

“Saeran,” you said, sitting up in the boxwood hedge, “Why would I willingly do something that I know will bring me harm?”

“You married me, didn’t you? Idiot. Get out of my way,” he said, with someone frantically excusing themselves in the background, “Fucking hell. I _will_ find you. You think you deserve privacy? You think you can go off by yourself? I told you you’re not allowed out of my sight, and when I find you— _oh_ , princess, you’ll wish you’d never left your place under my feet.”

“I’ve done everything else well today,” you said, twiddling with the sleeve of your robe, “I processed archives all morning. More than half of them are digitalised now, and I spent the rest of the day censori—purifying literature. I’ve been good.”

“An airhead like you doesn’t get rewarded for the bare minimum. No one’s gonna fall at your feet and fucking worship you for doing the minutiae assigned. Fucking conceited _weed_.”

Can’t this be over yet? “Saeran, I’m tired. You didn’t need me today, so may I stay—”

His laughter crackled over the phone, and you held it away from your ear. Please, don’t let him make fun of you—a stone sank in your stomach. “Aw, is my useless, little _toy_ feeling _lonely_ because I didn’t pay her any attention? How pathetic. I’ve been alone for so long, and you don’t see me whining to anyone who’ll turn their nose in my direction. You’re alone for, what, a couple of hours, and you crack? Such a _fragile_ little thing.”

“Three days,” you said, your eyes watering as you lay back in the boxwood (but it was okay to cry; he wasn’t here), “Besides the razor, you haven’t—you haven’t spoken to me in three days.” Wake _up_ ; you’re about to cry because your abuser hasn’t interacted with you for a while. Leaving him alone is the safest route.

“Fuck you,” said Saeran, his voice growing louder, “You think I care? You’re not important enough for me to think about.” Wait, it’s not because he’s yelling. “You’re just a toy for me to use and dispose of,” came Saeran’s voice from over near the greenhouse, “so don’t think you’re worth caring for.”

You clamped a hand over your mouth and stilled your breathing.

“The only things I’m keeping you around for are the constant fear in your eyes and your tight cunt around my cock. That’s all you’re good for, and most of the time, you’re a fucking disgrace.” He paused. “Cat got your tongue? I must be close.” He meandered up the stone path, each step deliberate. “Tell me, princess: where are you in relation to the gazebo?”

You hung up on him, and he swore loudly.

“I know you’re nearby,” he called, cupping his hands around his mouth, “You can’t evade me forever. I’ll sniff you out due to your wretched scent alone, but know this: I’m not above smoking you out. I’ll light the whole damn thing on fire to find you, even if you’re burnt with it.”

Scrunching your eyes shut, you began to count to one hundred by threes. His shouts and footsteps faded off into the distance, leaving only the leaves rustling in the wind behind. When you reached ninety-nine, you inched yourself upright.

Only to have Saeran kick you in your lower back. “What’d you do to my hedge?”

“Oof.” You rubbed the spot where he kicked you and grimaced over your shoulder at him. “Was that really necessary?”

“Is this where you’ve been all this time? Desecrating my fucking evergreens?” Saeran crossed his arms. “You’re not to leave my side, and yet when you disobey me, you go out of your way to ruin months of my hard work? It was a real bitch to shape that thing, and now you’ve gone and cut a goddamn hole in it.”

“It’s a small hole, Saeran. Geez,” you said, scratching the back of your neck, careful to avoid the bruises, “Hold on. You said—”

Scowling, Saeran jerked you upwards by the wrist and into his chest, and your hands flew up to brace yourself against him. “You’re really in for it now, airhead. You’re going back to the closet. Maybe for three whole days this time—how long you claim I’ve been ignoring you. Actually? No.” He pinched your hip. “You haven’t seen me in action in the dungeon yet. Not loose. I’ve been too lenient towards you so far. What you really need is—stop that. Why are you laughing at me?”

“It’s just a smile, Saeran. I’m not laughing at you.” You snaked your arms around his neck and pulled him into a hug, smiling as you rested your chin on his shoulder.

“What’s this for? Get off.”

“Do you want me to? You have the power to push me off, you know.”

He did. “What’s wrong with you? Has being away from me made you sick for pain? Fucking masochist.”

“Tell me more about your hedge,” you said, bouncing on the balls of your feet.

“Shut up,” said Saeran, and he took your wrist again and dragged you away from the evergreens. “I’m gonna have to fucking fix it myself, since no one else gives a damn about anything out here except for the shit in the greenhouse. They just expect it to be _ready_ and perfect without having to maintain it. We need to recruit a professional landscaper already.”

“How long did it take you to design this place, Saeran?” You were dragging your heels on the stone path and practically beaming. “How long did it take to implement?”

“Two months to plot, the better part of a year to plant. I had other believers helping back then. Listen.” He spun on his heel abruptly, making you take a step back, and grasped your shoulders. “The fuck’s wrong with you? Have you gotten brain damage in the past few hours? Has it completely melted out your ears and into the dirt? Fucking…” Saeran placed his palm under your chin and lifted it, straining your neck (bite marks peeking out of the robes). “Fucking moron. What stupid scheme is rattling about in your head?”

“Nothing, Saeran. No scheme.” _Scheme._ “I’m just impressed to know this place exists due to _your_ hard work.”

“Of _course_ it’s _mine_ —” He cut himself off.

Beaming, you glanced up towards the sky, hopefully looking like the airhead he said you were.

Saeran jerked your elbow forward, heaving you towards the castle doors. “You say another fucking word before bed, and I’m slicing your tongue in half in the morning.”

***

Peyote cactus.

It’s a stout, round thing with button-like portions on the top that can be dried and either chewed or smoked. Alternatively, they could be soaked and drunk like a tea or ground into a powder for capsules.

They’re a hallucinogen that causes nausea, anxiety, vomiting, altered perception of space and time, and loss of control over motor coordination. Primarily, it affects the neural circuits used in the production of serotonin, which affects your hunger level, mood, body temperature, muscle control, and sexual impulses.

Peyote cacti are illegal and addictive.

Mint Eye’s greenhouse was lined with them. It fell to you today to harvest cactus buttons for the next batch of elixir, and so you went through the aisles with your basket to pluck them off. It occurred to you that you could fuck some of the cacti up and thus make it harder for elixir to be made, but they would know you did it.

You held a button up to the sun (your own hand was a bit unrecognisable. Saeran was designing a tattoo for himself, and he had used you as a test subject for his designs using henna instead of permanent ink. Just to get his hand steady at it, he’d spent hours penning minute details and fractals on your hand and up your arm). It looked like a normal cutting of a cactus. Small, green, and circular. Hard to imagine that such a small thing could fuck so many people up.

Saeran took his elixir in front of you now. At first, he didn’t want you to see, but now that’s he’s gotten to see you be trembling and frail, he’s better about it. He usually prefaced it by saying that since the elixir affects him this way, he couldn’t fathom what would happen to you.

When the pain became too much (after the time in the bathroom expecting to throw up but never being able, after the outbursts of embarrassment and rage, after the vision blurred and lost focus), he allowed himself to reach for you. The first time he had knelt in front of you, wrapped his arms around your hips, and _wept_ , you had frozen in place. Nowadays, you let him have that for a moment before raising him up, kissing his forehead, and guiding him to the bed (much to his chagrin. He had work to do. He never stayed for long).

He always chalked it off as a lapse in judgment. Temporary insanity.

That _bitch_.

You pictured emptying your basket into the gutter, but you turned it in to the believers in the lab before you headed towards your room with the far-flung hope that Saeran would be pleased to see you.

***

“This is the last time I’m gonna tell you. I’m usually not so _generous_ , but you’re such an idiot that you need such reminders.” Saeran backed you against the sanctuary door and grasped your face, his thumbs pressing into your eyes at the bottom of the sockets (the first step to gouging eyes out, he’d once told you). “It’s profane for anyone besides the saviour and me to say anything during the blessing of the elements. And since this particular ceremony hasn’t been held before, if you say a single word, there’s no telling what the saviour’s gonna let me do to you. Got it?”

“I do,” you said, shadows appearing in your vision when he pressed down, “All sound or just words?”

Something affected Saeran’s eyes unlike you’d seen before. “You may be led to make noise during the ceremony. It depends on the individual believer. But I’m challenging you not to.” His thumbs swept under your eyes and down your cheekbones, and he patted them roughly (not enough force to qualify as a slap but still abrasive). “I’m not gonna give you any special treatment in there. I’m gonna treat you like any other believer, got that?”

“No, of course not,” you said, raising a hand to smooth his robes but lowering it again. “I’m not—”

He dropped his hands. “No one’s gonna have to help you walk in those fucking things, right?”

“Oh, um. No,” you said, lifting the hem of your own robes to show him the stupid fucking high heels for the stupid fucking blessing of the elements ceremony—something about the saviour having to say a thing that’s going in the elixir is fine. “Taller than I’m used to, but I’ve practised walking.”

“Comfortable?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Nodding, Saeran cracked open the carved door to the secondary sanctuary, the hum of believers already sounding. “You’ll be at the front with me. Don’t—”

“People will _see_ me? I don’t—I’ve never—”

“They’ll see you,” said Saeran, his eyes flitting around the room through the door, “I’ve decided.” He slid his fingers through the crack, bending his knuckles to open the door a hair wider. “Don’t you _dare_ make eye contact with the saviour, even if she gets near you.”

“All _right_. I won’t.” You adjusted your robes so that they weren’t lying flat on your bruises. “I don’t even know what this ceremony _is_ ; I don’t know what I’m supposed to _do_ —”

“Turn your brain off,” said Saeran, pushing the heavy door open and you into the sanctuary, “and do as I say.”

Smaller crowd, you noted as you followed Saeran to the altar, and you couldn’t spot a cloak with teal embroidery instead of gold—all right, that meant that the believers gathered were all men. Was there a small group for women being held elsewhere? It wasn’t common for things to be split this way.

Saeran sat at Rika’s right hand, and you sat on a zen cushion on the floor next to him (for a moment, Zen flashed across your mind—from when your life was on the outside. You had a stab of longing for some fish bread).

Since the secondary sanctuary held the baptismal pool, already well-lit, and a line of deacons sat in the front pew, the blessing of the elements was probably going to be some farcical travesty of the Lord’s Supper. It’s probably just one of their sacraments, so cool your head, okay? Just take whatever they give you to eat and mouth along to the hymns.

Wait, if the blessing of the elements is a sacrament, then that suggests that the elixir itself is supposed to be holy—and that didn’t seem to be the case.

Shut up. Just shut the fuck up. Don’t try to bring religion into this cult. You’ll just get more confused.

_This is dumb as shit_ , you thought, as Saeran got up to say some shit to the believers. Rika might be thinking the same thing: she’s crossed her legs and sneaked her phone into her lap, scrolling through twitter. You know what? Same. Same, girl.

It’s the first time you’ve related to Rika at all, let alone seen some shred of humanity. You supposed it’s got to be weird, being, like, 28, and having established yourself as a Christ-like figure for a _bunch_ of losers; records showed around 1,200 believers lived here. Hell, you’d never been able to control group projects in school, so Mint Eye, even though it’s a cult, was lowkey impressive. Where’d she get the money? Just how persuasive _was_ she? Why’d she build a damn castle instead of a more inconspicuous building?

She’s wrong. She’s abusive. She’s cold, callous, and has no more room in her heart, but the fact that she’s gotten this far was something. Maybe there’s still true humanity left in her, and maybe you and she can be fr—

“Let it be known that what has been said is filth is now declared clean, and let it be known that all present are witnesses to these blessings,” said Rika, staring out into the small congregation, “May they rain upon your head. For eternal paradise.”

The believers echoed her before she continued. “Deacons, at your leave.”

They rose and moved to turn Rika’s secondary throne towards the baptismal pool, where lights were aimed towards a silver pole being attached to the drain. Once his own chair had been aimed at the pool, Saeran eased into it, his hands clenching the arms, legs splayed, the tip of his shoe against your knee, since you’d moved your cushion yourself.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

So, start running the water. Let’s get it over with. You scanned the pews for someone looking nervous enough to be anticipating baptism (also, how did Rika come to the decision that baptism by immersion was the way for Mint Eye?). No one sat near the front, so cloaked faces blurred together in a black wave.

Rika lit a hand candle, and her light passed through each believer to blaze at each of theirs, illuminating a sea of chins and cloaks. (Rika hadn’t been the one to pass hers, though; she hadn’t even gotten up. A deacon did that for her, and it’d been yet another way of leaving you out that you hadn’t gotten a candle.)

“I now hand the ceremony over to Saeran,” said Rika, smiling, “It is for him we hold this blessing.”

You shifted in your seat, a little eager to see how long it would take Rika to pick up her phone again, and maybe you’d be able to read over her shoulder—

“Whoa,” you said, tensing the instant two of the deacons took you by the shoulders and picking you up, their arms sliding under your legs—you shot a look towards Saeran—was _whoa_ a word? What’s happening?

Saeran rose from his seat and walked with your deacons over to stand in front of the baptismal pool, his hands clasped behind his back. “The time has come for my dosage of elixir to increase, and the saviour is gracious enough to permit me a privilege as her strongest believer. You are called to witness the blessing of an element specifically for me.”

Oh, shit.

“There must always be witnesses to the blessings, and,” he said evenly, “there must always be something to be blessed.”

Hands—hands of more deacons worked at your robes, unzipping them and pulling them down your body, and with no hesitation, your bra was unhooked and underwear cast aside—you couldn’t fight; three of the deacons were solely there to hold you still, and another still bent to tighten the straps on your heels.

None of the physical contact was sexual, and perhaps, it was the fact that you were being touched without feeling behind it was part of how distant you felt from Saeran.

Two, metal bands were wrapped around you, one at your waist and one at your hips, threatening to slip, and your arms were wrenched backwards to be handcuffed and secured to the bands behind you.

“Sae—”

You kicked at the believer at your feet, his hand flying to his bleeding nose, and again towards one behind you. The deacons lifted you again and stepped over the gunwale to the baptismal pool.

Couldn’t even elbow anyone, let alone grasp the pole they’ve backed you against. The fuming glower you shot Saeran didn’t crack his cool demeanour, and you couldn’t kick anyone anymore for flashing anyone—wait, hold up, holy _fucking_ shit—it just now registered you’re naked in front of everyone; the manhandling took you for a loop. Holy shit, holy shit, and you can’t cover yourself, _God_.

Saeran stood outside of the pool, staring you right in the eye. He gestured for the deacons to spread your legs (you tried to kick him), and Saeran reached down to part your labia with two fingers.

You swallowed.

And you went into a fit of sputtering when the deacons lowered you onto the pole, your jaw dropping automatically as the cold metal filled you. A smirk crossed Saeran’s face as he held his hand fast to feel the pole stretch your _completely dry_ cunt, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come. He dragged his fingers through your folds and slapped them.

While you were getting your footing at the deacons’ release ( _ouch_ , ow, oh, my God, holy shit), Saeran held out his hand, and one of them gave him a vibrator.

God, fuck, it was like you were on display like a damn mannequin. You couldn’t—with your hands cuffed behind your back, you couldn’t lean or grab onto anything, and _fuck_ , ouch, you shouldn’t’ve tried that—you couldn’t lift yourself off of it, because the heels had you already on tiptoe, so you couldn’t garner any more height _to_ lift yourself off.

Oh, my God. What the fuck. Saeran?

Saeran hooked the vibrator to the two bands around your waist and hips, setting the head atop your clit.

“Sae—”

He glimpsed up from his work, almost to dare you to complain.

You bit your lip, and then you mouthed _please_.

“Someone’s needy,” he said, and you shook your head; that wasn’t what you _meant_ , you absolute _prick_.

He huffed. “You wouldn’t know this, because you’re a privileged piece of shit, but the elixir happens to be bitter as hell.” He trailed his fingers down the vibrator, down to the switch, resting above the fading impressions your underwear elastic left in your skin. “I’m being allowed to add the sweetest taste I know.”

He flicked it on and turned his back on you.

Saeran sat stiffly in his chair next to Rika, whose eyes scanned up and down your body. “This is what you wanted?” she was saying to him, “She’s not much.”

Shut the fuck—oh, _fuck,_ yikes. The vibrator secured to your clit frazzled your thoughts. You hadn’t touched a vibrator since you were grafted into Mint Eye, so it was way more powerful than you’d been conditioned to, after all this time—hey, it wasn’t just a vibration. It had a whole-ass _suction_ surrounding your clit (you pulsed at the realisation, and you gritted your teeth).

Oh, you got the message. Singular, intense sucking without variation was Saeran’s main move when he went down on you, because it got you off _really_ quickly nowadays, with Saeran’s added motivation that it kind of hurt you when he did it. This was Saeran’s mouth on you, without him having to kneel in front of everyone.

Shaking your head, you mouthed _fuck you_ to Saeran. He shrugged.

So, he’ll soak up your arousal once it drips down your legs and onto the floor of the baptismal pool? _Bro_ , you thought, _you could’ve just done this in our bedroom._

This just fucking hurt. You tried to bend your legs a bit to see if you could edge yourself over sideways—oof, no. God, no.

You lifted your gaze to the candlelit congregation. Why did there have to be people watching? Why did they have to be all _men_?

Probably because a woman would have sympathy for you and protest—but Rika wasn’t doing anything. She was letting this happen. She could see you, right in front of her, all twitchy and beginning to sweat, practically impaled vaginally, restrained, and— _Rika wasn’t even watching._ Instead of a candle, the glow of her phone lit her face.

And nameless people were watching you—Saeran’s the only one you’ve been naked in front of before, and he looks at you through a lens of garbled affection; did these people think you looked fat? _Holy fuck, now is not the time for that._ But the thought still sat prominently at the front of your skull.

By the grace of God, your first orgasm rippled through you softly, a gentle surge travelling through your body, and by the time it tingled into your fingertips, warmth concentrated around your lower stomach, despite the edge scraping against your insides. What was this pole used for before this? Has anyone else ever been subject to this ceremony? Either way, you predicted that if you leant backwards and rested a hand on your stomach, you’d feel the pole poke out from inside you. But right now, leaning in any direction made your stomach turn.

You stood on your tiptoes as high as you could go, but the difference between that and the heels was negligible. Your weight settled almost entirely against the front of your vagina, against your damn g-spot. It was a broad pressure you couldn’t alleviate.

You gasped with some vocalisation behind it as your second orgasm built, and the thought occurred to you: why were you not gagged? If it were profane to speak—Saeran wanted you either to make the choice to disobey or to lose control.

Oh, hot—hot damn—you attempted to shift some weight to one foot, but the situation was stylistically designed for you to evenly distribute your weight—no breaks, no rest. And—oh, God, normally one orgasm at Saeran’s hands put you out of commission for most of the day, and you wouldn’t feel up to another one until, like, six hours later, and now you were immediately growing into, into another one? The fuck? The fuck? _Saeran._

The second came more quickly than the first—like feeling the beat of a song in your chest while standing in a mosh pit at a concert—and you took deep breaths in through your mouth, staring Saeran down as you spasmed around the pole. Parts of your body kept shuddering; mostly, it remained in your shins and ankles, but it migrated to your shoulder, your thighs, and your arms, once, for no good reason.

Grappling with coherent thoughts, you tossed out a lasso to circle around a topic for you to take your mind away, but you couldn’t fucking focus on anything besides your trembling ankles.

Damn it, the whole congregation was probably judging you based on what they’ve seen; they probably think you’re a bimbo sell-out who walked into being Saeran’s fat whore.

_Please shut up! Shut up! You don’t know that! You can’t know what they’re thinking; no one can mind-read. Check with reality, baby: you’re not a sell-out, a bimbo, fat, or a whore. That’s your depression talking._

_And you_ definitely _didn’t walk into this._

_…right?_

_Yes, baby; you can’t control Saeran’s actions. He is choosing to react this way. He is the one who has put you in this situation. You haven’t_ done _anything._

So, the believers would remember this forever. So what! So the fuck what. God.

Your knee jerked upwards, and you lost your balance for a second—some tinny squeak escaped from you when the pole sank in deeper by barely a millimetre, jabbing you in the—was _that_ what poking your cervix felt like? Fucking, _fucking_ abysmal. Okay, guys who claim they’re so big they’ll hit your cervix are not a good sign. Oh, my _God._ You can’t fucking lose your footing again.

The straps of your heels biting into your feet, you cycled your attention through each of your facial features, as if channelling your energy to different parts of your body would lessen the impact of the damned suction on your clit, from your nose to your cheeks to your—was Saeran turned on by this?

He hadn’t moved much: his legs were still splayed, his hands still clenching the armrests. The shadows from Rika’s throne obscured him too well to see an erection, but when you locked eyes for the first time since it started, Saeran crossed his legs, resting his ankle on the opposite knee, and he tilted his head very slightly. Eyes half-lidded and cold, face muscles slack.

_Damn it, Saeran! I’m your wife! I am your goddamn wife!_

Gritting your teeth, you tried to blink the swelling tears in your eyes away. Your knees shook as your arousal leaked down the inside of your legs, settling in both the soles of your heels and the baptismal pool (on the bright side, you’re not wearing socks?). Hello, everyone, she’s _squirting._ Let’s bless it.

Scrunching your eyes shut, you grimaced through your third orgasm, your hips unable to do more than twinge slightly around the pole. You’re not going to cry. You can’t cry around these people, lest they hand you your ass.

You were crying; you were hunched over at the waist, bent by an odd spasm and kept there. You jolted forward; the pole yanked you farther apart before you clenched around it again. Hips, thighs, your fucking fingertips at this point—all quivering, all overheated, all drained (except for your fucking cunt, apparently—the phrase _watering can_ flashed across your mind [at least you were staying hydrated?]).

You _wished_ you could pass out, from dehydration or otherwise, but _no_ , you had to suffer through more shaking, more spasms, more of this—this honey-like, sticky embarrassment (too sweet too sweet too sweet, sweet to the ache of a cavity and a thickness on the roof of your mouth). And you had given up; you were bawling (or were you weeping? Whichever one has more pathetic connotations).

Hands in fists, straining against the cuffs, against the bands, and fucking stinging whenever you jerked away from your original posture, intensely aware of metal inside of you, and, and—and another orgasm crashed through you like a train rushing over a penny on the rails, and you were screaming, throat reaching rawness at the strange scraping of it all—and—and god _damn_ it—and you finally obeyed Saeran when he’d told to empty your head.

His voice, calling for it to stop, vaguely echoed through your mind, followed by? Hm? Bathtub. His bathtub. Off the bedroom. Water in the tub? Probably. Hands. _Hands_. His Hands?

Did it matter?

***

A hypnic jerk woke you, followed by a burning ache between your legs. What’s more, you’d been changed into some of your old pyjamas, scavenged from your old place when Saeran retrieved your antidepressants.

Saeran held you, all tucked in underneath the quilts, lights turned off except for the one filtering through the crack under the bathroom door. You curled your hand into a fist, taking the fabric of Saeran’s t-shirt with it.

“You’ve never screamed before,” said Saeran, and you looked up at him—his arm folded behind his head, eyes glassy and fixed on the fan pull as it spun above him. He squeezed the arm around your shoulders. “You’ve cried, yeah. Taken everything I’ve thrown at you. Cried, insulted me, begged. But never screamed.”

You scooted yourself up on the bed so that your head rested next to his on the same pillow, and his arm slipped from your shoulders to your waist.

His brow furrowed. “I don’t want you do to that any more. I don’t want them to see that part of you. I don’t…you shouldn’t have to show it. That’s not for them. You’re not theirs.”

You placed a hand on his cheek, stroking it with the backs of your fingers before cupping it.

“Your screaming is frustrating.” Saeran licked his lips. “I like it better when you’re trying your hardest not to make any noise, but you still slip up. Those little gasps and whimpers, just for me, and you don’t even want to give them to me. Those are,” said Saeran, searching for the right word but simply settling for, “more satisfying. You’re not doing anything like that ever again.”

His jaw twitched before he stuck it out. “I got off on planning it, but seeing you go through it was something else. I don’t know what. But no one else should’ve seen that. Fuck,” he said, running a hand through his hair, falling back over his forehead, “You—it feels strange. Before, I had no trouble justifying it, but now, I. Hm. I don’t know.”

Trailing your fingers along his jawline, you turned his head towards you and kissed him, lips barely grazing his.

Saeran let out a shaky breath. “You’re too good to me.”

Closing your eyes, you rubbed your thumb along his cheekbone. “Don’t you have work?”

“I can’t do anything right now. I feel restless,” he said, “You want me to leave, don’t you?”

“No. Please don’t leave me alone again.”

Saeran nodded, and he brought you closer to press his lips to your forehead, keeping you tucked under his chin as he strained to rest it on top of your head. “I could get dinner, tonight.”

“Not right now. I think—let me see if I can get to the bathroom,” you said, pushing yourself up, first onto your elbows and then upright. “Oh, my _God_ ,” you said once you sat up, feeling a rush of blood seep from between your legs, “Holy _shit_.”

“What—what is it?” Saeran sat up after you, and his hand shot to your shoulder.

“You’d better hope this is my period, you asshole,” you said, swinging your legs over the side of the bed and reaching for him, “I can already tell you’ll have to help me walk. Fucking hell, if this is internal bleeding.”

With an arm around your waist, Saeran helped you to the bathroom and flipped on the softer lights, and he crossed his arms to lean against the doorframe—but he had to lift you for you to take off your pyjama pants, so he ended up seated on the side of the bathtub.

You winced at sitting down on a hard surface. “Is there a gynaecologist in Mint Eye?”

Saeran blinked. “I’ll check.”

Ultimately, you spent a good ten minutes crying into Saeran’s chest—this time of relief, for the stupid-ass chunks of shed uterine wall were there—thank God. Saeran moved you to sit on the bathroom counter so that you could have back support against the mirror, and he filled a cup of water from the sink for you, muttering about how you lost a lot of fluid. He stood between your legs (you inhaled sharply when you parted them, but you made him step closer to you, anyway) while you drank it, your throat not able to handle more than a few sips at a time.

“I—” He cut himself off.

You took another sip. “It’s okay, baby. Go ahead. It’s safe.”

Biting his lip, he frowned at his hands, which were hovering above your thighs, grazing them. “It wasn’t meant to come to this,” he said, staring pointedly at your lap, “I never planned on this route.”

“What do you mean? Take your time.”

His eyes flicked up to yours. “From the very beginning, I’ve been meant to chew you up and spit you out. You were always disposable.” Swallowing, Saeran tilted his head. “Get the RFA into Mint Eye and be tossed back into the mountains, memories gone. Or indoctrinate you and lose you amongst the crowd. Now that the party’s passed, and you’re…”

Your mug of water reflected you both.

“I was giving you another purpose and more worth. So the saviour wouldn’t keep saying that you’re useless, that you need to be crumpled up and thrown away. She’s been reminding me for a while now,” said Saeran, and he leant on his fists on the counter, his knuckles cracking. “It’s the first time I’ve tried to fight her on something. I’ve never disagreed with her before.”

Good. Thinking against something his abuser wants. Discrediting the leader. First step to escaping the cult mindset. You can’t seem too eager, though, so you just rubbed his forearm even though your hand was kind of clammy.

“I’ve conjectured that the saviour would gravitate towards letting me keep my damn _wife_ ,” he said, ducking his head on your shoulder, away from the bruises, “since a contributing factor to establishing Mint Eye at this point in her life was a romantic relationship. With that shit-eating _parasite_.”

Your hand flew to his hair, scratching his scalp and tugging him closer to your skin, and his fury passed, his shoulders visibly slackening.

“I don’t know if it’ll be enough. She may want more.” Saeran kissed your shoulder, his teeth palpable through his lips. “Can you bear to lose more of yourself?”

“We’ll think of something, baby, so don’t stress too must about it.” You pulled him closer to your neck so that you could press your lips to his temple, but in the process, he’d dragged his mouth over your bruises—you gasped and released him, and Saeran took a step back, out of your legs entirely.

His expression stony, he glanced towards the bruises, watching how you recovered. He looked away, running his tongue over his lower lip. “Let’s get something for dinner. Even if you’re not hungry, you need something in your system.”

Though the pace dragged, Saeran helped you walk through the cold corridors of Magenta and down two staircases into a cramped kitchen off the main way. He eased you into the only chair that had a cushion at the unsteady, wooden table.

You thanked him, and he spun around, his hands on his hips as he scanned the room.

“I thought the only kitchen was near the cafeteria,” you said.

He opened a cupboard to peruse the ingredients. “When the saviour’s suite was on this side of the castle, this was her kitchen. Now that she’s moved to the east tower, it’s for me to use,” he said, flipping over a bag of rice to check the expiration date, “though I haven’t cooked since the beginning of our relationship.”

You smiled to yourself. _Our_ relationship. Not yours and Ray’s.

“I really appreciate it,” you said, enjoying the way he scrunched up his nose and shook his head at ingredients he didn’t care for, “You’re rather good at it.”

He frowned and glanced over his shoulder at you. “Thank…you.”

“You’re welcome.” You yoinked another chair in your direction so that you could prop your feet on it. “Do you have an idea of what—”

“Quiet. I’m thinking.”

He went ahead and put water on to boil while he rooted through the pantry. When he got everything cooking and at an interim, you called him over, took a fistful of his t-shirt, and pulled him down to kiss him—though your eyes were closed, you could feel his surprise written on his face (his hand floundered a bit before gripping the edge of the table). He got into it, kissing you with enough pressure for you to tilt your head back, but it was more of a he-needed-to-be-close-to-you force rather than one grappling for control. Saeran broke away gently and pulled you into a hug, getting as much of his chest against yours as he could while still standing.

You didn’t say anything, instead stroking his spine lightly and breathing him in.

He withdrew, the tips of his ears red as he avoided eye contact, and he returned to the stove. While you riffled through the table drawers for chopsticks and napkins, Saeran started humming a song that was popular a couple of years ago. You joined in softly while you set the table, and once you started singing the words, he harmonised, keeping his back to you.

Eventually, he set a soup bowl in front of you, lifted your legs from the second chair, and sat in it, afterwards replacing your feet on his lap. You prayed over whatever it was (it had green tea noodles in it, so, hey), and its warmth seeped through your body.

The two of you ate in a comfortable silence for a little while before you broke it. “I keep finding you everywhere in my work.”

Saeran tucked the end of a noodle in his mouth and swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“I’m expurgating the _Iliad_ right now,” you said, stirring your soup, “and there’s a certain character who is unabashedly, wholly, and empathetically you. Care to guess?”

“It’s been a while since I’ve read it.” Saeran tapped his fingers on your leg. “I remember that’s the one during the Trojan War.”

“Yeah,” you said, “You remind me of Helen of Troy.”

Saeran’s eyebrows nearly shot into his hairline as he shoved noodles into his mouth. With an exaggerated slurp, he asked, “Is it because I’m divinely beautiful?”

“Sure.”

He smiled. “Why else?”

You poked at your soup for a moment, weighing which parts to reveal without provoking him. Start gently, you supposed. “She blames herself for the war. In the better translations, she refers to herself as a bitch. But it isn’t her fault. It’s the false pride of men choosing to react that way to something she had no control over.” You paused to take a bite, letting that simmer. “She bears a heavy burden that’s not her own.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I want you to be happy, Saeran,” you said, reaching for his hand and grasping it, “I understand that you may not think so, but from an outside perspective, it seems like you take on too much and stifle yourself away. And—and you think it’s your fault that your life has unfolded this way. Your life has been out of your control for a long, long time, and regaining some semblance of control was part of why you acted like that towards me. I want you to be able to live without supressing something of yourself.”

His eyes half-lidded, he withdrew his hand from yours to pinch the bridge of his nose, and he scoffed, which morphed into a loose grin. “After all I’ve done to you.”

“Are you happy, Saeran?”

Saeran got up and started clearing the table.

***

Methanol is highly flammable. It’s a colourless, watery thing that’s used in antifreeze and as fuel for boats, and sometimes, it’s blended into gasoline. It _can_ help metabolise food in tiny amounts (often not) and naturally occurs in some fruits and vegetables.

It’s poisonous for human consumption.

If ingested, it can cause headaches, dizziness, blurred vision, and nausea. So _of fucking course_ it’s in the elixir.

Your level of abhorrence towards Rika had hit a new high. Saeran had been working on his computers, hacking into a C&R database, and since he’d replaced his computer chair with an oversized armchair, you’d been sitting between his legs as you censored Mint Eye’s copy of the _Odyssey_ , Saeran’s chin on your shoulder while his eyes darted across the screen.

He’d had to bend his arms at an odd angle to type, but he’d said he wanted you close.

A fellow disciple had entered the room with Saeran’s dose of elixir, and he’d told Saeran to hurry up and take it, since he had to go recruit soon. Saeran had had to chug the whole decanter while the disciple stood on. The decanter had been taken once it’d been emptied, and as soon as the door had latched shut, Saeran had fallen to his knees.

So, that was how you now were kneeling on the bathroom tile, pulling Saeran’s hair to hold his head up as he tried to vomit it all up, and hoping to God that the toilet wouldn’t clog. You wiped his saliva off your first two fingers and flushed again.

“God, this sucks,” said Saeran, his sweaty forehead digging into the toilet seat, “This is hell. I’m her strongest believer, and I can’t even handle the fucking elixir any more.” His chest rose and fell, and he dry-heaved. “I can’t bear to stomach it. What’s _wrong_ with me? What the hell happened?”

You rubbed his back and swiped your hands to his front, pulling on his suit coat for him to take it off. “Saeran, baby, you’ve made the elixir yourself. You know what’s in it. Your body is reacting as it should to high dosages of hallucinogens and poisons that shouldn’t be combined, let alone consumed.”

“Fuck,” said Saeran, bending his shoulders back to let you remove his suit coat, “When I get my hands on that disciple, I’m gonna skin him.”

“How will you find him? You don’t even know his name.”

“Names don’t exist in Mint Eye,” he spat, saliva dripping down his chin, “You have a name. I have a name. No one else does.” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and he glared into the toilet bowl. “I’ll—I’ll find his number by finding who’s on delivery during this shift.”

“So, kill the messenger?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do since the beginning.”

You let out a laugh and covered your mouth, and Saeran grinned bitterly before coughing up more bile.

***

Lying with the sunlight seeping through your eyelids, you stretched out on the blanket that was shitty enough to bring out to the gardens. So long as you stayed towards the back evergreens, no one would bother you. Other believers appeared to have pre-determined times they were allowed in the gardens, anyway, and though that was yet another freedom restricted for believers, it meant that you could have hours alone.

And yet you heard the crunching of dead grass. You held your hand up to the sun and cracked open your eyes. Saeran’s silhouette blocked it out for you, the sunlight a halo behind his head. Though you couldn’t make out his features, you grinned anyway.

Saeran groaned and dropped to his knees, curling up beside you before you could even ask what was wrong. He snaked an arm around your waist and pulled you a little closer than was comfortable, and he slipped his legs under yours, prompting you to bend your legs over his. If you’d been in a chair, you’d have been sitting sideways on his lap.

Saeran strained to press his lips to your lightly sweaty neck. “Fuck, you’re a sight,” he said, his breath hot but welcome anyway, “Been looking for you for a while.”

“I thought the missing blanket would have been indication enough.”

“I didn’t notice until I’d sent someone to search the archives.”

“What’s happened? Are you all right?” You slid your hand through his hair.

“’M fine,” he said, closing his eyes and scrunching his nose against your neck, “I think. Luciel’s agency is protected harder than I thought. I’ll crack it; it’ll just take me a while. It’s busy work designed to frustrate. C&R’s gotten tighter in the meantime for no fucking reason at all, and I hate it.”

“I think _you’re_ the reason it’s gotten more protected, baby.” You absently stroked his hair, drawing your attention to the sporadic cirrus clouds.

“I want no such compliments,” Saeran grumbled, muffled into your skin.

You nodded. “Do you want to plant something new soon, once we have the time?”

He grunted against your throat.

“Are you okay, Saeran?”

He sighed and stretched his free arm over your chest to hold your hand. “Tell me more about Helen.”

You blinked. “Who?”

“Helen of Troy.” He threaded his fingers between yours and squeezed. “You held back last time. What were you not telling me?”

“Oh,” you said, brow furrowing, “You got me.”

“Don’t hide anything from me.” With each inhale and exhale, he breathed a humid cloud against your neck.

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay? How’s your stomach?”

“I’m _fine_ , damn it.”

You ran your tongue over your lower lip. “ _How_ is your stomach,” you said flatly.

Saeran slid his arm around your waist down to your lap before he answered. “It hurts,” he said, “but it comes and goes. I haven’t thrown up so much in years, and now that I’m doing it so often, I’m having trouble handling it.” He scoffed and gripped your thigh to bring you closer (how did he manage?). “But it’s better than having hallucinations and no lucid thoughts.”

“Your body’s going through a lot. You’re strong for fighting it, Saeran, and for daring to start to change in the first place. And I’m proud of you for taking a break,” you said, “It means you’re valuing yourself more.”

“I’ve got to get back soon, otherwise she’ll get suspicious, and I feel this horrible—” He clutched at his chest. “—horrible guilt in me if I’m not doing what I did in the past. I—” His arm returned to your waist, and he brought your hand to his mouth. “—I find myself instinctually thinking Mint Eye rhetoric. I can’t shake it.”

“I’m here to help,” you said, bringing his fingers to your lips in turn, “Even when it’s hard.”

“I’m not sure you get it. You should be _terrified_ of me.” Saeran loosened himself from you to straddle you, looming over and planting his hands on either side of your head (the sun was in your eyes again). “There are _things_ that she taught me that are carved into my brain. When I see you, I still _impulsively_ want to—” He rubbed his thumb on your lip. “— _ruin_ you. Tear you to shreds. From the day I came, I’ve been primed to hunger with a mint and roving eye for what I don’t have, and what I have will never be enough, as if there’s a hollow in my bones.”

Saeran pressed the tip of his thumb into your mouth but withdrew it and grimaced. “I see so clearly now why she let me have you. You were supposed to fortify everything she taught me.” He traced your jawline, turning your head to the side, and he trailed his fingertips down a tendon in your neck. “I was to come of age with cruelty with foam flying from my tongue. And now? I’m not supposed to shelter anyone nor seek it. She’d say _you’ve_ ruined _me_. God,” he said, and after he kissed your cheek, he fell back into his slump at your side.

“Saeran.” Your turned sideways and held him. “ _Saeran_ , she doesn’t know any different, and she never will. She won’t find out. You can only do so much in this place. For now, she can’t make you want what you want. That’s enough. You’re growing right before my eyes, and before long, you’ll shed your skin, and you’ll _thrive_. And for now, I’m with you. I’m listening.”

Saeran took a deep breath, burying his face in your chest.

The two of you lay in the breeze as autumn colours fell.

“You’re avoiding the question,” he said after a while, “About Helen and me.”

“Right.” You licked your lips. “Right, then.”

“Just spit it out.”

“Well, when she was kidnapped, she left behind a family she adored. Leaving romantic feelings on her part, but for you, well. Um. She was convinced by Aphrodite to go with her kidnapper—he was a himbo named Paris—to Troy. Helen didn’t know what she was getting into.” You listened for any reactions, but he gave away nothing. “Her guilt is the result from internalising all of the victim-shaming directed her way. Saeran?”

Nothing.

“And even if she _had_ gone willingly, without Aphrodite’s coercion, Helen wouldn’t’ve been culpable of _anything_ that happened. Not the war. Not the deaths.” You rubbed his back, his spine jutting out. “The men around her chose to react that way. She’s not responsible for how other people felt or acted.”

You paused. “V would be Aphro—”

“You don’t have to connect the dots; I get it.” His eyelashes fluttered against your skin. “I’m just not sure if I can believe it. I feel so guilty. I feel so _angry_.”

“No one said Helen wasn’t angry. She had every right to, and you do, too. It was just that—” You tilted your head towards the sky. “—other people were louder. Her shouts were lost amidst war cries. You? You’ve been shouting for so long. For you, there may be a strength in silent rebellion.”

You closed your eyes to the sun once more. “Sing, goddess, the rage of Saeran, which launched not a thousand ships but was hearkened by all and heard by one.”

***

“Now, you’ve got to behave,” said Saeran, running his fingers through your wet hair and suppressing a weary smile as you did the same to him, “If you snore or make any sudden noises during vespers tonight, I’m not gonna hold you when we go to bed.”

“Oh, c’mon,” you said, and you flattened the layers of his robes, laying your hands on his chest. “Don’t you want me to cause a fracas?”

“If you’re smart, you’ll stay backstage until I come get you.” Saeran ruffled your hair, and then he brought a strand of it to his nose, followed by his mouth. “God, you smell like me.” He kissed the strand before letting it fall. “It’s something I’ll never get used to.”

“So, don’t,” you said, leaning against the cathedral door, “Let it be new every morning.”

***

You kissed down the red hair trailing from his navel to the hem of his pants, giving a particularly wet suck as you unbuttoned them.

Saeran pressed himself into the pillows at the headboard, his torso stiff but flushed, his hands in tight fists at his sides, and though he made no noise, his jaw trembled and eyes watered. “You don’t—” His eyes scrunched shut as you licked a line up to his navel. “You really don’t have to do this.”

“God, you’re so warm,” you said, sliding his pants down, “and you’re so damn _gorgeous_.” You rubbed your nose against his skin. “Look at this. Look at you. I’m immensely proud of you, eating on a schedule, consistently, and everything. You’ve got fucking _v-_ lines now. Holy shit.” You licked up one of them. “But I know you probably hate that name, so I thought I’d let you know the sexier ones: the inguinal crease, rectus abdominis: lower aspect, and Adonis’s belt. You’re striking, Saeran.”

You glanced up at him while you were tugging off his boxers, and he was biting his fist.

You traced your fingers around his hipbone, inches away from his cock, all pink and fucking aching for you. “At this rate, you’ll be built like a shit brickhouse in no time. Or a brick shithouse. Wait,” you said over Saeran’s bark of laughter, “I fucked that up.”

You crawled up to him, shaking from laughing with his tears spilling down the sides of his face. “Not that I want you to change, Saeran. I’m just proud of you for starting to take care of yourself. I love you just the way you are.”

Dabbing away tears, Saeran managed to compose himself long enough to cup your cheek. “Mm, I _know_ , sweetheart. You surprised me.”

Smiling, you said, “Now, back to our regularly scheduled programming.” You returned to his abdomen and pressed your lips against his thigh, his cock pulsing when you grazed it. You mouthed your way up the underside of his cock, but before you got to the top, you bowed your head and closed your eyes. “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly grateful.”

Saeran nearly kicked you off the bed for how hard he was laughing.

***

Rika’s sharp green eyes glanced up as your cheap sandals clacked on the cobblestones; from her throne they looked as mint as anyone else’s, but that was simply due to the lighting. Under the shade of the gazebo, her eyes glinted their dark green, yet darker still once she laid them on you.

“Good morning,” she said, and she nodded at the chair on the other side of the wrought-iron table. “Sit.”

“Good morning, saviour,” you said, smoothing your stupid dress before you sat, “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

“Not for long. It gave me time to observe the progress here in the gardens; I usually don’t wander outside very much. I’m sensitive to the sun. Tea?” Rika gestured for the believer sitting at a distance to serve herself and then you, not waiting for your answer.

You stared into your amber cup to the sounds of Rika’s tea being stirred.

“There’s nothing in it you wouldn’t want in your system, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Rika set her spoon on her saucer. “Sixty-one,” she said, not even looking at the believer, “if you’ll set out the apple tarts, that’ll be all until the champagne. Keep it chilled. You’re dismissed, but be on deck.”

Sixty-one disappeared into the wisteria once your plates had been piled with tarts and petit fours. Rika bit into an apple tart, beaming, while you tentatively doctored up your tea.

“That expression you’re wearing,” said Rika, tilting her head, “I used to think it meant that your head was empty. Now, I understand it’s your default expression when you’re processing new information. What is it now?”

Swallowing (and clearing your throat; it was way hotter than you thought it would be), you set aside your teacup. “I apologise, saviour. I find myself exceedingly nervous at being alone with you. I did not think I deserved such an honour.”

It’s just like working in customer service: you tell them what they want to hear.

“I take an audience with whom I please,” she said, gesturing with her fork, “and now that I’ve fully observed your influence on Ray and Saeran, it pleases me to meet with you.”

“Oh? What’s your verdict?”

Rika clasped her hands together and propped her chin on them. “I want to raise you to your full potential. There is a darkness in you, at first so subtle that I couldn’t stand it, but now it screams, yearning for deliverance.”

_Hello, would you like to change religions?_

She returned to the final crumbs of her apple tart. “There was going to be a cleansing ceremony for you ages ago, but I looked directly through you and saw the impossible: you are already clean.”

You stabbed at your petit four with as much composure as you could handle.

“It appears you _naturally_ think the way I do; that’s why you and I are the only ones not on the elixir. Well,” she said, serving herself a second apple tart, “that, and it wreaks hell on our antidepressants. You, in essence, are cleaner than I am, for my past tarnishes my being. You, though.” Rika centred it on her plate. “You can bring Ray closer to salvation than I can.”

You swallowed thickly, the icing too sweet and heavy on your tongue. “I thought Saeran was your strongest believer.”

“I’ve noticed your affection for him. I’ll allow you to keep him. I’ll give you anything, should you want it.”

You held back a dumb joke about Elizabeth III.

“What I want from you is for you to join me in moulding Ray into a new figurehead for Mint Eye. He will be the ultimate mouthpiece for our ideology to permeate the world, but you and I? We’ll be the true power behind him.” Rika tore her gaze away from her apple tart and finally onto you, and her full attention made your chest tight. “ _Oh_ , the things we’ll teach him—you can stretch his strings and twist his pegs until he sings the right tune. Should any misled outsiders attempt to shut us down, he’ll serve as the scapegoat so that no one can get to us. A real pincushion man.”

Rika threw her head back and laughed, and it reverberated around the gazebo, bouncing back from the columns to prod you over and over again. “That is the plan. The time is now,” she said, composing herself, “Be a shadow queen with me.”

***

“Poor souls who seek salvation, the eternal happiness will be with you here at Magenta,” said Saeran from the pulpit, his arms wide, “The outside world is a pit of defilement.”

Concealed from the congregation, you sat in your usual spot in the sanctuary, but now Rika joined you, both in black thrones shrouded by dark curtains. You and she had written a treatment for a script, given it to Saeran, and coached him on inflection. If you concentrated, you could catch a glimpse of him through a space in the curtains, but he remained in the distant, holy character that Rika had designed for him.

One would think that more than a couple of believers would question that the role of saviour could pass so easily from one person to another, but the very few who protested were escorted to the dungeons. To be frank, most of them may be too drugged up to care about much.

Speaking of apathy—instead of listening to the propaganda she had written, Rika sat cross-legged in her throne to play Animal Crossing on her yellow switch. Yeah, she’s internalised all the information being spewed, so why _not_ play her…island version of Mint Eye (the flag with the eye logo was surprisingly well done).

You crossed your arms and brought your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on them while your black dress billowed to the floor. Rika no longer posed as the saviour of Mint Eye (though how that worked in Mint Eye rhetoric, you _still_ didn’t understand: since Rika had been Catholic, you’d figured that she’d draw from the appointment and role of the pope, being that if you were appointed pope, you were the pope until you died, with the exception of very, very few, and those were looked down upon [Shut up! Stop trying to make sense of this! Turn! Your brain! Off!].). Goofing off and playing with her switch, well—Rika acted like someone her age for the first time.

She didn’t scold you when you bent to watch her play; in fact, she tilted the screen in your direction to watch her give non-native fruits to her villagers. How did she have all the fruits already? Did someone give them to her?

That meant that someone was friends with her on Animal Crossing. Fucking bizarre. Could that be you, in a different timeline? Could you and Rika have been friends in real life if not for Mint Eye?

That was a mighty big _if_.

(“Saeran, your stole is wrinkled,” you’d said, smoothing it out and letting your palms linger on his chest more that you should have.

Saeran’s gaze had been glassy and distant. “Thank you for fixing me, my queen.”

“Saeran.” You’d glanced over your shoulder at Rika, who had been performing a mic check with the sound booth a couple of paces away. “You’re doing so well. You’ll do a wonderful job of convincing _everyone_ ,” you’d said with a flash of your eyebrows.

“Yes,” Rika had said, adjusting the cord on the mic pack, “I must warn you, Ray, that your life will change dramatically from this moment on. You will be different, set aside. Holy. People may blame you in the light of your perfection for the things are wrong and unjust in this wretched world.”

Saeran had blinked slowly. “I do not fear change,” he had said, “I do not fear blame. I only seek to deliver the words of salvation to everyone I am able.”

“That’s the spirit,” Rika had said, tearing off a piece of mic tape, “Go wait offstage. It’s not yet time to grant them a witness of your mysterious presence.”

Saeran had left without responding.)

Now that he was preaching, your chest ached. Empty, empty, empty. Rika hadn’t let you speak to him after that; the saviour had to be too holy for worldly contact (yet she had been sleeping around when she was saviour? By all accounts, it made no sense. The contradictions couldn’t stop coming).

Applause, applause. You jolted, placing your feet on the floor, and clapped as well, while Rika saved her game, snapping with her free hand.

While the believers funnelled outside, Saeran retreated backstage to the two of you, where he knelt. “My queens,” he said, “You have been so gracious to me to allow me to take my place under the moonlight in this form. I am forever in your debt.”

He kissed the top of Rika’s stockinged foot first, but he loitered around yours.

“So long as you keep your work at this height, you will never need to fear,” said Rika, brushing his hair back, “Tonight was successful. The saviour is not needed for the enquirers’ class.” Her half-lidded eyes flicked to you. “Both of you are dismissed. For eternal paradise.”

More bowing and kissing of cheeks, all in ritual. Yes, yes. Though you were not interrupted on your way to your quarters, the walk took a lifetime—Saeran’s fists clenched at his sides as he strode woodenly through the corridors, unbridled chatter as believers discussed the service, and your clacky sandals on the worn stone floors.

Saeran fiddled with the skeleton key to your rooms, and when it would not turn, he froze entirely. Not even a breath, but he carried on after a few, harsh beats. He tapped it open, hand sliding across wood as it creaked widely for you, and he locked it again behind your back. He dropped the key to the floor, clattering loudly on stone.

“We are _leaving_ ,” said Saeran, toeing off his shoes, “ _Tonight_.”

You spun on your heel. “Excuse me?”

“I can’t take closing my ears and heart to be her stone golem, not anymore.” He kicked his shoes against the door and surged towards you. “Not now that I’m _so close_ to mental freedom and to owning myself again—or, perhaps, for the first time.” Saeran cradled your face in his hands, rubbing his thumbs over your cheekbones as he bit his lip. “I can’t go back to what I was. You’ve helped me change, and I want to keep changing.”

Saeran brought your lips to his, his lips warm, chapped, and parted to graze yours. His tongue skimmed your lower lip. “That snakehead expects me to startle to sky and shake the earth with her bastardised ideology when it’s not even capable of bending a daffodil in the breeze. She’s closed her eyes to reality,” he said, his eyelashes quivering against his cheeks, “Mint Eye has been fated to fail from the start. Oh! _God_.” He shivered and pressed his forehead to yours, his shoulders heaving. “I don’t know how much in my head is good and what is evil, but I do know what is true, and that’s who I am when I’m with you.”

“Saeran, baby, I’m relieved.” You covered his hands on your cheeks with yours, leaning into one of them to relish his calloused fingertips against your skin. “The progress you’re making is remarkable. You’re breaching your cult programming, baby, and I love to see it.”

“Thank you,” he said under his breath, “ _Thank you._ I want to get better. I want to be a man who can care for you as much as you’ve cared for me—though I may not reach that, since you’ve been endlessly merciful to me. Fuck, I want it. I want to be good for you.”

“You will; you are,” you said, snaking your hands down his arms and around his shoulders in an embrace—he dropped his hands and returned the hug, holding you with a vehemence previously unseen. “Right now is only the beginning. We’ll get out; we’ll get you in therapy; we’ll take each step together. You can learn who you are as an individual and in relation to me.” You kissed the spot directly in front of his ear. “You won’t be alone any more.”

He let out a dry sob into your shoulder. He inhaled to take another but froze. Saeran pulled back and frowned, and he glanced at you—you nodded—before moving the collar of your robes aside.

Your skin had almost completely cleared.

He was grinning. Saeran was grinning more brightly than you had ever seen him, and he was shaking his head, and oh, my God, when did that happen? I couldn’t stand seeing what I’d done—and he was kissing you, his tongue massaging yours with difficulty due to his smile, and he guided you until the backs of your knees hit the bed, where he lowered you onto the worn duvet and hovered over you, his arms planted on either side of your head, never breaking away from your mouth.

Boy howdy, Saeran had a mouth. Boy. Howdy. Kissing him was like standing stark naked next to a fire: a contact warmth with the promise of more heat. You only existed where he burnt you, and if you flickered away like a spark rising at night, so what? So _the fuck_ what.

“Get these damn robes off of me,” you said, fumbling with your stole to lift it over your head. Saeran clutched you to his chest to reach the zipper on your back, and he raised it off of you. He yanked too quickly with his own stole, messing up his hair and choking himself in the process, and you let out a laugh, taking it and tossing it to the side.

You brought his robes up to his hips, sighing through a smile when your hands fell to the swell of his ass, and you steered them to grind against you while he lifted his robes over his head, briefly getting tangled in its folds. A groan, half-muffled in the fabric as he yanked it off at last, escaped him, unexpected and throaty, and his face flushed scarlet.

“That’s a lot too quickly,” he said, his voice catching when you ran your thumb over the clothed head of his cock, “Let me eat you out, or something.” When you stopped to raise an eyebrow, he cautiously ground against you between your legs, once, making sure your heat touched all of him, from the tip to the base of his cock—dragging himself against your clothed clit.

“In a bit,” you said, “C’mon, baby, sit up against the headboard.”

Before he could sink wholly into the pillows, you were on top of him, one hand sliding down his chest and the other in his sweet, _sweet_ smelling hair. He held you like you were a poem, something _other_ and _holy_ , fingertips light and unsteady on the rise of your hips.

“So, what triggered bringing the escape up to tonight? Besides everything, I mean.”

Saeran breathed you in while you kissed along his neck. “Along with the sudden switch from the savi—Rika being saviour to me being saviour, I’m—I’m not worthy of being worshipped, even if I’m touted as such.” His warm hand swept up your ribcage to cup your boob, just allowing the warmth of his palm to make your nipple flatten out. “As much as I’ve been primed to think so, I’m not _perfection._ I’m some hardass, depraved kid who’s been trying too hard to please someone who could never be satisfied. I don’t deserve to be worshipped. Nor, I think, do I want it.”

“Probably for the best,” you said, nipping the spot where his jaw met neck before sitting upright. Unhooking your bra from behind, you let your gaze fall down his figure. “My God, Saeran, I’ve told you so many times, but I simply cannot emphasise how unbelievably _gorgeous_ you are. Once again, I draw attention to your collarbone at this time.” Tossing your bra aside, you hunched over Saeran, sliding your hands up his chest. “Just the fact that I can _see_ it, and it’s _there_ , and it’s _you_ , fucking hell.” You pressed your lips to it before dragging your mouth down his chest. “And your chest—you’re all flushed and pretty, and I love the way your breathing will stutter ever so slightly when I do _anything_ to you.”

You glanced up at him, and he was clenching his jaw shut and determinedly glaring at the ceiling—but he swore breathily when your teeth grazed his nipple (his cock jolted through his boxers).

“ _Shit_ , darling,” said Saeran, grabbing your hand before you could reach into his boxers, “I can’t—oh, my God.”

“I’ve hardly done anything to you.”

He scoffed. “That’s what you think,” he said, and his eyes widened. “Sit on my face.”

“What?”

“C’mon, last night in Mint Eye. Last night under the grasp of that demon woman and her ghost. I want to make you _feel_ ,” he said, his abdomen hard and warm against yours, “I want to make you feel so, _so_ good. You deserve it.”

“Now, that’s debatable.”

“Not so. Are you okay with that?” He licked his lips, staring at yours.

“We’ve never—I don’t want to suffocate you,” you said, looking aside as he grasped your chin to kiss the corner of your mouth.

“Please, your ass is divine. I mean that.” Saeran kissed you again, letting his closed mouth linger against yours. “What else concerns you about it?”

“I guess—are you sure?”

“ _I want to._ I’ve been dreaming about it for a while, to be honest. Since the start, though my intentions were less gallant.” Saeran bent his head to press a wet kiss to your throat, dragging his tongue in the meantime. “Tonight, I have every intention of opening you up like a flower. Now, are you going to take your underwear off yourself, or am I going to rip them?”

“God, no, fuck. I like these,” you said, briefly getting off him to remove them. You pulled at the elastic. “Do you think you could legitimately rip them?”

He took them from you and stretched them. “I could _now_ , but I wouldn’t’ve been able to at the beginning. I expect the teeth-biting-ripping manoeuvre I envisioned would not have worked. Right. I _believe_ I told you to take a seat,” he said, reclining fully and patting his cheeks, “Get up here.”

Fumbling, you scooted yourself up to hover over his head, but you moved to sit back on his chest—but with a firm arm around your thigh and a hand at the swell of your ass, he forced you down until his hot breath diffused across your cunt. But instead of going there, Saeran instead moved his lips to the side, trailing them across the crease between leg and labia. Saeran’s mouth twitched into a smile when he swopped to your other thigh.

It’s after he took a moment to nuzzle his nose into your pubic hair that he dragged his nose down your clit, hitching it back upwards to stretch your clitoral hood for a tight second, and his mouth opened and closed in a pucker around your core, his lower lip undulating. Saeran nibbled up and down your labia, occasionally holding them lightly between his teeth so that his tongue can lick through the slicker, softer parts of you amidst wet, lazy kisses. He gave a slow suck to your clit, and when you jumped at that, he moved lower to do the same elsewhere.

Saeran purred and sent a buzz rippling through you, and you released the headboard to clamp over your mouth.

He parted from you with a squelch. “I want to hear what soft sighs you have in store for me.”

“That wouldn’t’ve been a sigh,” you said, clasping the headboard again, “and I don’t want anyone even knocking at the door. Technically, I think we’re supposed to be praying right now.”

“Look at me, sweetheart,” said Saeran, and you finally did—his face had bloomed into a rosy pink, with a film of your arousal and his saliva covering his chin. “After this, you can have me any way you want me.” He took a breath to blew cold air over your cunt. “But right now, I want you to play with one of your tits—both, if you can manage—and I want you to hold on for me.”

You nodded, and Saeran pulled you towards him again, first kissing your inner thigh. You rolled your nipple under your thumb as Saeran shifted to hold you by the backs of your thighs, dragging his flattened tongue through your sex—initially encouraging you to roll your hips against his mouth, but that stopped once you spasmed away from him; he brought his palms to your hips and weighed them down, his nails digging into your skin.

Your breath hitched when he started the first, long, _languid_ suck to your clit (you shot him a look, and that fucker _smirked_ at you). Your free hand wove into his hair and _yanked_ , and he planted his upper lip around your clit, leaving his tongue free to narrow and flick harshly between sucks—and he was holding back; that _fucker_ was holding back; that wasn’t as hard as he could go.

While his mouth centred on your clit, Saeran rubbed gentle, little patterns about your core with his middle and ring fingers, never entering, only dancing.

Your knee jerked and struck the side of his head; Saeran grinned into you before withdrawing his tongue and simply sucking on your clit, _hard,_ in waves, like suckthhign staraw? (Your thoughts grew less coherent.) Mm.

You hunched over with heavy breathing, legs shaking, and pushing on the headboard but were unable to escape his stupid, glorious mouth. Hardly a full second could fit between your spasms and twitching once he started to prod you with his thumb, pushing and rubbing against your throbbing core, and his thumb had only sunken in to the first joint when you came.

Saeran eased your trembling legs onto his chest with a satisfied grin underneath that dripping coat of arousal going down his chin, but before you could pull back entirely, he caught you. “Not yet,” he said, tilting his head to press his wet lips to—to the self-harm scars on your thighs (he’s light and delicate and careful about it, and it’s so sweet your gag reflex responded [ _fuck_ ]). After he finished, he helped you sit back on his lap, holding you steady while he sat upright against the pillows.

You sputtered for a bit while he watched you with a soft smile. “ _Saeran_.”

Eyes half-lidded, he held his lips to your shoulder, where a bite mark used to be.

“Oof. Yikes. Let me up! Let me up,” you said, and his hands fell lightly to your hips while you groped around to open the drawer on the bedside table, where, upon finding the box, you shook it until a condom clattered against the sides and tumbled into your palm. “I am nowhere ready for another orgasm right now, but I need to be close to you.”

Saeran worked the condom onto his cock ( _very_ pretty, _unfairly_ pretty, who has the audacity to look this pretty?), and you both lined him up with you, with him leading his cock through your folds on the way there. You lowered yourself onto him slowly— _slowly_ —biting your lip at the stretch and the momentary bulge of his eyes.

Your forehead fell to his shoulder as you pressed down the final inch, and he kissed your neck with a lingering, open mouth. Saeran took short, shallow breaths, and when you involuntarily tightened around him, he swore quietly, the word heavy on his tongue.

“I have a confession.” He nudged your neck with his nose. “I was a virgin before you.”

You could hide your laughter, but you couldn’t hide how you squeezed around him because of it. “I know, Saeran,” you said as you shifted to face him with the most serious expression you could muster, “I knew.”

“Shit, and here I was thinking I was a dirty rat bastard for hiding it from you.” Saeran sighed, tensing as the head of his cock brushed more deeply into you. “I’m a dirty rat bastard regardless.”

“Saeran, honey—”

“Please,” he said, “Please let me say this. Let me—apologise.”

You lay motionless for a beat, and then you trailed a hand upwards to rest on his chest (you made a conscious decision to loosen up so that he could concentrate). “Okay. I’m listening.”

“I’ve been cruel to you. Fucking ruthless, acting like I didn’t have a damn heart.” His voice spoke softly against your ear, while every fucking ridge and line of his cock pushed against your walls. “There’s no excuse. I shouldn’t’ve treated you like that. I can’t say it enough, but know that it’s imprinted on my soul that I’m so, so sorry. I’m sorry for—everything, and that I’ve—you’ve been so, so patient with me—” Saeran grunted and shifted his hips a little. “—being empathetic and gentle and loving even when you had every right to respond to me with the fury it merited. And yet.” He paused. “And yet while I’ve been tormenting you, you’ve also been teaching me that my worth isn’t dependent on my usefulness. I’m having trouble processing that, but now that you’ve planted the idea inside my head, it can’t be trampled.”

A shiver passed through you, unfurling its sails up your spine.

“I’ll learn it and keep learning it until it’s a part of me. I’ll learn to be healthy; I’ll learn to be good. I’ll shake off whatever shackles the sav—Rika’s bound me in, and eventually, I’ll reach the ones I don’t even know about right now. And I’ll be free.” Saeran tucked some of your hair behind your ear. “And I’ll be good for you. You deserve it. You deserve a better me than I am. God, _fuck_ ,” Saeran said, leaning his head back into the pillows, exposing his neck, “I am so sorry. And you, you’ve been there for me even when I abandoned you, and you’re helping me out of this even though it’s not your burden to bear, but you’ve stayed with me and have been so, so soft, and now, you’re here.” Saeran swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “And you’re burning inside. Twitching over me. It’s more than I deserve.”

You pushed on his chest to sit upright, and his lips parted as you clenched around him. “Saeran, technically, we all deserve hellfire, but the point is that there’s this thing called grace.” You placed your hand on his cheek, and he couldn’t even lean into your touch for his wide, desperate stare on you. “It’s not something you earn. It’s freely given, and I’m giving it to you. You have it; there’s nothing more you can do or say to get me to forgive you more than I already have, because I’ve forgiven you for all of it. You rat bastard.”

Shutting his eyes, Saeran exhaled through his nose in a weak laugh and nuzzled into your palm. His eyelashes were dumb and pretty and red as they fluttered against his cheeks (blushing in ruddy patches), his brow furrowed very slightly with bleached hair plastered against his forehead.

You pulled yourself off most of his cock before easing yourself down it again; his nose wrinkled as he grimaced into your hand. “Not ready?”

“No, I am,” he said, opening his eyes blearily, “I wasn’t expecting it so soon. I thought we would cry for bit until I lost my erection, like a loser.”

You stopped and removed your hand from his face. “Do you want to cry for a bit?”

“Maybe later. You can go on, if you want.”

Nodding, you managed to grind against him two more times before taking a deep breath. “Hoo, boy. Saeran, I’m embarrassed.”

“You don’t have to be. What’s wrong?”

You bit your lip. “My legs are still kind of trembling from my first orgasm, so I don’t think I can ride you tonight.”

“Then let’s flip over,” he said, and he stayed inside you while he moved you onto your back.

You bent your legs while he adjusted himself between them, and he planted his forearms on either side of your head, his face close enough for his hair to fall upon your forehead.

Saeran tilted his head very slightly, winced, and kissed you—lightly, gently, like he was anticipating something, but then he rolled his hips, ending with a sharp snap. As he repeated the action, his stomach muscles pulled firmly and then flowed with his movements.

First you gripped his biceps (growing! Getting stronger! Baby!) but moved to wrap around his neck, your fingers rising through his hair when his tongue entered your mouth, sliding up the roof and lingering around your tongue—he pulled it into his own mouth and sucked on it with so much force that your head lifted off the pillows for a moment.

When you broke to breathe, Saeran moved to nip your ear, shifted his weight onto one arm, and used the other to rub his thumb over one of your nipples before lightly pinching it. “I’ve also been too selfish when it comes to you,” he said, “because I haven’t wanted to say it, even though I’ve known it for ages now. I’ve been so fucked up that I didn’t realise how deep it goes. I still can’t fully process it.”

He sucked in through his teeth when your hips bucked back against his on impulse. He tightened his jaw to steel himself, and then he looked you in the eyes and opened his mouth to speak—but he closed it again, scowling, and picked up the pace, giving your nipple another flick before tapping his fingers down your stomach. Saeran curled them into into your pubic hair and lightly tugged on it, and he sighed again, released it and laying his hand flat against your stomach.

His voiced dropped as he shifted his mouth back to your ear, his hot breath spreading over your neck. “I love you. I should’ve said it before now, and I should repeat it every day for you until the end of time, and I’ll say it as often as you like from now on. I don’t want you to forget.” His hand snaked lower, pressing the heel of his palm into your clit. “I want to make you happy wherever you are, and I want to be happy with you. It’s something I’ve come to want on my own.” Saeran circled your clit in sporadic pulses. “I’m no longer anyone’s tool or lackey or right hand man,” he said, dragging the full length of his hand down your clit until he rubbed you with his fingertips, “I’m just a man who wants to make you happy.”

Your chest heaved, your back already curving away from the mattress as the ripples of a nearing orgasm rolled through your body. You bit your lip in a smile and managed to get out, “Will you make me happy, then?”

Saeran swirled his thumb around your clit at the same time he gave a particularly hard thrust, and you spasmed around him, your legs curling in and making both of you swear loudly. After taking a controlled breath, Saeran said, “Yes. Yes, I will. You can—” His hips shuddered, but he held back until you were squeezing around him on your own, rolling your eyes back and losing every thought but the focus on the throbbing between your legs. “There you go. Clench around me.”

(You could actually _feel_ his cum pulsating through his cock as he came in you; that was fucking weird, but your noticing it made your hips stutter enough to prolong your orgasm a little more.)

Saeran pressed his forehead against yours, clutching your face and panting, and he kissed you again, long and sweet, before pulling out of you and discarding the condom. “I love you,” he said, returning to kiss your jaw, “It’s hard to believe how much. We’re getting out tonight; we’ll escape, and—” He pulled back, grinning loosely. “Is your therapist good?”

“Fabulous,” you said, running your fingers down his arm, “We probably shouldn’t see the same one, though.”

He nodded, moving to kiss your neck. “Then we’ll get me in with someone she knows, and we’ll live; we’ll be free, and we won’t have to hide. I’ll grow, for myself and for you. I’ll finally get you a ring, so that damn Zen will keep his hands off you.” Saeran nestled into your neck when you gasped. “Yeah, we’ll go back to them. They’ll accept me before anyone else. They make you happy, anyway, and I want you to have every joy you can.”

“Saeran,” you said, holding his hand with your eyes watering, “Thank you. That means so much to me, and I want you to have every joy you can, too.”

Saeran lifted his head to shoot you a grin, and he kissed you one last time, nibbling on your lower lip as he pulled away. “Then we’d better get packing, if we’re leaving tonight.”

He got off of you and the bed to retrieve the boxers he’d tossed across the room (and you got an eyeful of his pretty, pretty ass), and once he’d picked them up, he turned towards you, frowning, with a hand on his chest.

You sat up with effort, hanging your legs off the side of the bed. “What’s the matter, Saeran?”

“Nothing, I think.” He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, and he laughed softly. “I feel brave. Excited. This is going to work.” Saeran’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, and they were full of light. “We’ll be so happy. I can feel it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eleven days is a short amount of time to fall in love and break free from cult programming!!! so here is a longer boy!!!!
> 
> also, i recognise that all of us concentrate on fucking saeran in that one room where he keeps us, but i wanted to explore magenta for us. we talk about the gardens. let's fuck in the gardens.
> 
> (they totally fucked in the gardens.)

**Author's Note:**

> hi i'm in therapy
> 
> If you would like to message me about the fic, theology, or the fucked-up state of Christianity in America (see: social religion and civil religion), here’s my [tumblr](https://dashielldeveron.tumblr.com/ask). I’ll do my best, though I may not have all the answers.


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